


It Feels Better Biting Down

by inlovewithnight



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 24x7 play, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Confinement, Impact Play, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Scene Gone Wrong, Spanking, Wax Play, failure of professional ethics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 16:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 52,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12916089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: Jamie meets his Cinderella dom. At least one of them is probably going to fuck this up.





	It Feels Better Biting Down

**Author's Note:**

> The working title for this story was “Fifty Shades of Sharpy,” not because it actually draws on the Fifty Shades books but because, like them, it’s meant to be titillating and romanticized and not a how-to guide for safe BDSM. Don’t try it this way at home, this is Idiots Doing Kink Without Thinking Things Through.
> 
> I started it when Sharpy was still on the Stars and hoped to finish it way before this, but life had other plans.

Jamie swipes his credit card, trying to ignore the cab driver’s glare. Definitely going to leave a big tip, to try to make up for… all of this.

“Thanks,” he says, trying to sound cool. “Can you pop the trunk? Thanks.”

He boosts the backpack with his kit onto his shoulder and walks around the cab to the trunk. The back right tire is sitting right at the edge of a deep puddle, rimmed around the curb edge with heavy black slush. Winter in Vancouver fucking sucks.

Jamie fumbles in the trunk for the handle of his massage table; it’s collapsed down neatly for travel but it’s still heavy and clumsy. Yanking it out of the trunk sends him stumbling backward; his backpack slides down his arm and catches at his elbow; his hand slips on the table. He takes a step sideways before he can catch himself.

Right into the damn puddle. Of course. That’s all he needs, today. After being late leaving his last client, hitting the cab driver in the kneecap with his table when he came around to help with the trunk, and then messing up the address twice, a soaking wet and freezing cold foot is perfect.

“Close the damn trunk,” the driver yells. Jamie slams it one-handed and shifts his bag onto his shoulder again, just having time to brace himself before the cab pulls away and sprays him with slush up to his knees.

He’s gonna make a great impression on the client, looking like this. Just great. What a day.

He looks at the building he’s standing next to, then at his phone. Yep, the address lines up. He knew the address was a fancy part of town, but he hadn’t realized it was quite this fancy. Even more great. The doorman might not even let him in.

The doorman _does_ let him in, but the woman at the desk in the lobby asks for ID before she’ll check his name against a list on her computer, then purses her lips and asks him for the name of the company he works for.

“Blue Sky Massage Therapy,” he says carefully, trying to catch his lisp before it can come through on the S. “But, I mean. I’m on the list. They’re just going to tell you that yeah, I was assigned to this client. I don’t know what good it’ll do to call them?”

“It’s my job, sir.” She eyes him sternly and types on her computer for a moment, then picks up the phone and dials. Checking up on him, that’s awesome, that’s gonna get him yelled at later. This whole appointment already sucks. Next the client is probably gonna yell at him, or not have showered in three days, or something. Maybe the room he’s supposed to work in will be really cold, or smell bad, or be like the client who had like eight _snakes_ in big tanks around the room and Jamie was sure he was gonna just freak out right then and there.

The woman clears her throat after she hangs up the phone. “Take the elevator to the twenty-fifth floor. Mr. Sharp is expecting you.”

_I told you so,_ Jamie thinks, but he can't be rude to her for doing her job. “Great, thanks,” he mumbles instead, and hauls his stuff to the elevator before he can embarrass himself again.

The elevator opens into a small lobby on the twenty-fifth floor, and Jamie's confused for a moment before he realizes that this is it. These two doors lead to the only apartments on this floor, meaning that both of them must be huge. Meaning that Mr. Sharp is even more loaded than the address and the rest of the building indicate.

Also meaning that it's kind of weird that he went with Blue Sky instead of some exclusive rich people's massage group, but, well, that's a question for another day. Or never, honestly. It's none of Jamie's business and he should just be glad he's going to get paid. Having regular paycheck-sized deposits in his bank account is much nicer than when he was studying and interning and hoping for kind-hearted tips.

He's still hoping for those, but it's less urgent. He chips in on the groceries now, and in a couple more months he's gonna be able to help with rent.

He squints at the numbers on the doors and drags his gear to the right one, knocking and then stepping back to try to look calm and professional when it opens. First impressions are important. His boss keeps emphasizing that he needs to be pleasant and friendly, not surly and intimidating. He doesn't _mean_ to be those things, ever, but apparently he is, sometimes. He always mostly just feels nervous. But he promised to do better, so—

The door opens. Jamie takes a deep breath and puts on a smile. “Mr. Sharp? Hi, I'm from Blue Sky Massage, I'm Jamie.”

“Hi, Jamie.” The entryway is shadowed and Jamie can’t see him very well, but he has a soft voice, calm and pleasant. “I’m Patrick. Come on in.”

Jamie follows him down the little hallway to a bright, spacious living room. “So, where would you like me to set up?”

It’s good that he got the whole sentence out before Patrick turns around to answer him, because _holy shit_. The face that goes with the voice is—well. Cheekbones that somebody stole off a work of art, steady gray eyes, carefully tousled dark hair, and just… fuck, _all_ of his features came right off a carefully chiseled statue somewhere. Jamie’s gonna swallow his tongue if he keeps staring.

“Anywhere you want,” Patrick says, gesturing at the space, then trails off. “You’re all wet.”

Jamie silently wishes for this place to be full of snakes after all, really big ones that will eat him and make this end. “Yeah. It’s messy out there. I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Patrick looks dubious, but doesn’t push, thank god. “Okay, well, set up wherever you want. Should be plenty of room, I think. Can I get you some water or anything?”

“Um.” Jamie tries to laugh, but it comes out self-conscious and weird so he coughs instead, and just, he’s a mess. “I think I’m supposed to ask you if you want any, actually.”

Patrick laughs and drags his hand through his hair. “I’ve been alternating water and tea all morning, don’t worry. Very well hydrated.”

“Oh. Um, good.” Jamie concentrates hard on the latch of his table case. “A bottle of water would be… good. Yeah. Thanks.”

“Is a glass all right? I don’t buy bottles, bad for the environment. I’ve got a filter and I promise, everything’s clean.”

Of course it is. This is a very expensive apartment that’s probably cleaned by a team of professionals twice a week. Jamie wants to throw himself off the balcony. “A glass is fine, definitely. Thanks.”

“I’ll go get that while you get set up.” Patrick walks away and Jamie makes himself focus on each step of getting the table unfolded, the sheets set up, and the headrest attached. He’s not allowed to think about anything else, not until the session is over. All panicking will have to wait for his trip home.

Patrick comes back just as Jamie finishes setting up his table and setting the pump bottle of lotion beside it. Patrick smiles faintly and hands him the glass. “All set?”

Jamie nods. “Go ahead and undress to your level of comfort, I’ll step into the hallway.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Patrick tugs his t-shirt off and Jamie takes a fast sip of water, turning to face the windows despite Patrick’s words. The view is beautiful—a church rooftop and a park beyond that—and he focuses on the colors and lines, using it as a moment of stillness to prepare for his work.

The shift from both of them dressed, having a conversation, to the unbalanced state of patient and professional, is important. He pulls himself into the right headspace, dismissing all of his reactions to Patrick’s appearance out of his working mind and centering himself on skin, muscle, connective tissue.

When he finishes his water he turns around again, to find Patrick lying on his stomach on the table, the sheet pulled over his waist. “Okay,” Jamie says softly, coming to his side and folding the sheet down to cover his ass but expose his spine as low as possible. “Great. On your appointment form it said that you like medium pressure but will indicate when you need more, and that you need particular attention on your left side above and below the hip. Is that all correct?”

“Yeah.” Patrick nods and shifts a little on the table. “Old hockey injury on that side, my hip. It messes up everything connected to it.”

“Yep, makes sense, that’s what I’m here for.” Jamie lotions his hands and then runs one down Patrick’s back, observing how he reacts to the gentle pressure. “I’m going to start up at your shoulders and work down to there, okay? Let me know if you need more or less intensity.”

Patrick draws a deep breath and then lets it go, relaxing onto the table. “Got it.”

Jamie likes what he does. Helping people relieve their pain and tension, that’s the most important thing, of course, but he also likes the way it’s almost like he’s a magician. He manipulates muscle and tissue, all the invisible connecting pieces, making things happen with his hands. He crafts that relief with techniques that might as well be secret and magic as far as his clients are concerned. It feels powerful. He’s only going to use his powers for good, though. That’s important.

Patrick doesn’t talk while he’s on the table, just stays loose under Jamie’s hands. Jamie asks a few questions about pressure, but when they just earn grunts in reply, he stops asking. If Patrick tenses or twists, he’ll ease up and ask again; otherwise he’ll just work and see what happens.

Whoever worked on Patrick before did a really good job; there are no deep-rooted problems for him to dig up, just stresses and tension built up from the last time someone gave him a massage. Jamie eases them without too much trouble and then focus on relaxation. Patrick makes a few soft, throaty noises, indication enough that Jamie’s on the right path, and he smiles to himself as he draws Patrick’s arm away from his body to begin working on that.

Patrick’s a bit more skittish around his legs, especially on the side with the bad hip, so Jamie lightens his touch and takes his time. Patrick kept his boxer-briefs on, and Jamie takes that as a cue to focus away from glute work until they have a chance to discuss it first. Never make assumptions.

He tugs the sheet up and clears his throat. “Turn over?” he half-asks, half-tells. Patrick does, his eyes closed, his face flushed red. “Okay, now scoot down a bit so I can drop the headrest… thank you.” Jamie adds more lotion to his hands and gently words at Patrick’s shoulders and neck, humming under his breath. He’ll do a bit of scalp and maxillofacial work, then see if there’s any time left on the clock and ask Patrick if he’d like his feet massaged as well.

Time runs out, though. He makes a mental note to make a real note to follow up with Patrick on that next time. Feet and glutes. Important. Then he pulls the sheet up to Patrick’s shoulders, runs his hands lightly down his arms, and steps back. “Thank you for letting me work with you. I’ll step out so you can get dressed.”

“No need.” Patrick opens his eyes and smiles at him, then slowly sits up, letting the sheet pool at his waist until he swings his legs over the edge of the table and gets to his feet. “That was wonderful, thank you. You’re very good.”

“No, thank you.” Jamie ducks his head and turns away to twist the pump on the lotion back into its closed position. “Can I get you some water?”

“Please. I left a glass on the counter. And help yourself as well.” Patrick swings his legs slowly, clearly testing the motion in his bad hip. “This feels really great.”

Jamie goes to the kitchen, taking a moment to breathe and steady his mood before he gets the water. There’s a door open in the hallway, just a bit past the kitchen, and he detours a step to glance in before he goes back to Patrick.

It’s a small, neat room, with a desk in the corner and a couch along one side, but that isn’t what catches Jamie’s eye. The walls are hung with hockey memorabilia—photos, two sticks, a few shadowboxes with pucks in them. Trophies are lined up on a shelf over the desk, along with a few more pucks, and on the far wall, in pride of place, hangs a framed Philadelphia Flyers jersey. 

“I thought you might find it.”

Jamie jumps, water sloshing out of the glasses and over his hands. “Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s all right. I left the door open, that’s not prying.” Patrick comes down the hallway, still only in his boxer-briefs, and flicks the light on in the trophy room. “And I did say it was a hockey injury in my hip.”

“That could’ve been pond hockey. Juniors. Any level.” Jamie looks into the room again, giving up and letting the water drip down on the floor. “But you were in the NHL.”

“For a few years.” Patrick’s smile is faint but genuine. “That’s my draft day jersey. The usual brag stuff.”

“That’s amazing.” Jamie knows he shouldn’t gush or be weird, but—this guy, his client, he was an NHL player. Jamie’s old childhood dream, the one he and Jordie and Justin had chased around the rink back home in Victoria every day, the one that took Justin to Boston College and a season in the ECHL before he came home. The one that Jamie and Jordie didn’t quite make click.

He isn’t sad about it anymore, and he doesn’t think Jordie is, either. They have lots of good memories from their years in juniors, and they both like what they’re doing now. Barely any kids who love hockey make it to the show. _Statistically insignificant_ , Justin would say, _contrary to what my dad and my uncle think_.

Seeing this stuff is just really goddamn cool, that’s all.

Patrick gently takes the glasses from him, smiling. “Go ahead and take a look. I don’t have anything else going on today, so you can stay as long as you want, if you’re not in a rush. I’ll just go get dressed.”

“Oh, I don’t want to bother you.”

“It’s not a bother at all. Please. Go ahead.” He walks off down the hall, and Jamie stands there for a minute, staring after him, until he realizes that means he’s staring at his barely-clad ass and forces his attention back to the room.

He moves slowly from wall to wall, studying all of the pictures and news clippings, reaching up to touch the stick and squint at the faded writing on the tape ringing the pucks. First NHL point, first NHL goal. AHL stuff lined up on the shelf over the desk. Junior and youth stuff crowded together on a bookshelf in another corner. And that jersey, bright and eye-catching, almost aglow.

Jamie lets himself look for a few minutes, but pulls away before he can really start lingering. It was nice of Patrick to let him in here at all; he shouldn’t abuse the privilege.

Patrick meets him in the entryway as he gathers up his things. “I’ll see you again in two weeks?”

“Sure. I mean, call the office and schedule it, but I’ll definitely be expecting to see you again.”

“I look forward to it.” Patrick smiles at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and Jamie fumbles with his case, his brain shorting out embarrassingly. He should be able to smile back, but that would take more control of his muscles than he apparently has right now.

Patrick looks puzzled, but holds out an envelope. “Your tip. Thanks again.”

“Oh. Yes. Thank you. You’re welcome, I mean…” Jamie takes a deep breath and takes the envelope, shoving it into his pocket. Jesus. What is his problem?

“Bye,” he mumbles, backing out the apartment door into the vestibule and then fumbling with his case _again_ to free one hand and hit the elevator button. Fuck, how embarrassing. And he has to come back in two weeks. That’s just great.

**

Jamie texts Jordie from the corner and settles in to wait, leaning his table case against a lamppost and scrolling slowly through apps. HIs fingers are still slippery with lotion, leaving him wiping them on his pants every so often and switching his phone from hand to hand.

Jordie works at a mechanic’s shop, which means it makes sense for him to drive a junker. He honks from halfway down the block and Jamie stands upright, slipping his phone into his pocket and gathering up his case. Jordie swoops up to the curb and pops the trunk, the car jittering all over at idle. 

“This thing’s going to fall apart,” Jamie tells him once he climbs inside.

“It’s fine.” Jordie looks in the mirror and eases into traffic. “So how was the fancy new client?”

“Fancy.” Jamie settles deep in his seat and closes his eyes, trying to coax his shoulders into relaxing. 

“Good tip?”

“Uh.” Jamie pulls the envelope out of his pocket and peeks inside, his eyes widening. “Great tip. Shit. I’m not sharing.”

Jordie laughs. “But you’ll buy dinner tonight.”

“Aw, c’mon, dude—”

“Relax, relax. It’s Justin’s turn.”

“His mom and dad sent money, eh?” They’ve been Justin’s roommates for a year now, but friends since childhood; that means Justin’s parents consider them their kids, too, and double their generosity to Justin’s grad-student meal budget to help out the whole household.

“We better call them and say thanks.” Jordie changes lanes and steps on the gas. “You gonna see this guy again?”

“Yeah. He said he would call in and ask for me again.”

“Good job, Chubbsy.” Jordie reaches across and taps him on the knee. “Booking solid clients. Not getting fired.”

“I’ve never gotten fired.” One internship got cut short. One. And that wasn’t even his fault.

“But Jane said that if you didn’t start bringing in clients who stayed, you were going to.” Jordie is such a jerk. “But you got one! You don’t have to work at Timmy’s.”

“Shut up.”

“I love you, kid.” Jordie taps his knee again and puts his hand back on the wheel. Jamie closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He can still smell the lotion and a hint of something else—the client, he supposes. Patrick.

“He was nice,” Jamie says, more to himself than to Jordie. “He used to play hockey. Like, for real. The NHL.”

“No shit? Did you ask him about it?”

“Not really. That’s, like… invasive.” Patrick didn’t seem like the kind of client who wanted the therapist to be part of the furniture; he probably wouldn’t have minded if Jamie had asked. Jamie didn’t like to push, though. Boundaries exist for a reason.

Jordie looks in the mirror and changes lanes. “Well, I think you should ask. I bet he likes talking about it. I know I would.”

Jamie rolls his eyes. “You don’t like talking about anything.”

“I don’t have anything to talk about.” Jordie makes the last turn to get back to their apartment and slides into a parking space along the curb.

“You’re more interesting than me.” Jamie isn’t really sure if that’s true; probably he and Jordie are about the same. But he doesn’t like Jordie putting himself down.

Jordie snorts and kills the engine. “Uh, no, you’ve got your kinky weekend life going on, bud.”

Heat blooms in Jamie’s face, like every time Jordie says something about that. “Dude.”

“It’s true! Kinky shit is way more interesting than anything I’ve got going on!”

“I don’t go around talking about it.” Especially not to clients. Jesus. He can’t even imagine that, that’s just… that’s against the rules.

“Yeah, yeah. Get your shit out of the trunk.” Jordie never dwells too long on Jamie’s—thing, he doesn’t know what to call it. His secret. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. His thing. Jordie just brings it up to throw Jamie off, then drops it again before either of them can get uncomfortable. It’s weird, but, well. _Boundaries_.

Jamie stomps around to the back of the car and wrestles his table out again, managing to dodge the puddles. “Get the door?” he asks before he slams the trunk shut, to be answered by silence, since Jordie has gone inside without him. Dick.

“You’re a dick,” he says once he gets inside. Jordie is already on the couch, shoes off, sprawled out with his dumb dog. Justin is sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by books and papers, his laptop open and the familiar glazed look in his eyes that means he’s been at it for a while and still has a while to go.

Jamie sets his table against the wall and goes down the hall to the bathroom, where he can finally wash the lotion off his hands. He looks at himself in the mirror while he washes, scrunching his nose and studying his hair. Should get it cut, probably. Definitely before the next open play night. He wants doms who like messing up a clean-cut nice-looking boy, not ones who want to punish a bad boy or a brat. Totally legit ways to play, just not Jamie’s preference. He knows what he likes.

Open play night is coming up soon, thank god. He missed the last two for one reason or another, and he’s hungry for it. He wants to be cuffed and pushed around. He wants a good flogging and somebody to slap his face and make him cry.

A week and a half to go. He makes a face at himself and turns the water off. Patience is good. Waiting for it is good. It makes it sweeter when he gets there.

**

When the day finally rolls around he’s kind of forgotten about all that crap about anticipation being good. He just wants to play. 

He gets home from his last client mid-afternoon, has a snack, and then goes for a nap. Gotta be charged up and ready to be out all night. He’s too jittery to fall asleep at first, but jerking off helps with that, and he gets a solid couple hours in before his alarm goes off. Then downstairs for dinner—something light, he doesn’t want to be full and groggy when he’s scening—and back up to shower and get dressed. He has this routine set up and he follows it, makes sure he has a little bit of structure, or he’ll just jitter all over the place in excitement and forget something before he gets out the door.

He combs his hair back slick and smooth when he gets out of the shower and puts on what he always wears to open play night: a soft black t-shirt and black pants, soft and loose-fitting so they won’t pinch or squeeze when he’s on the way home with welts under them.

There’s still half an hour before Justin will be ready to leave. Jamie sits on the edge of his bed and plays with his phone, tapping through mindless puzzle games until he can’t take it anymore. “Dude!” he calls, leaning into the hallway toward Justin’s bedroom door. “You ready?”

“Ten minutes,” Justin yells back. “Drink some water. Hydrate.”

“I already had some.”

“Drink more. It’s good for you.”

Jamie flips the door off, but it’s not really satisfying. Then he makes his way downstairs and gets a glass of water anyway. Might as well start getting in the mindset of doing what he’s told.

Jordie’s in the kitchen, measuring out Juice’s kibble for dinner. “Look at you all spiffed up.”

“I know. Clean clothes.” Jamie drinks. “You gonna wait up for us?”

“Nah. Just watch a movie or something and go to bed. But you’ll call me if you need me, right?”

“Yeah.”

Jordie fills Juice’s dish and sets the cup aside, then comes over and takes hold of Jamie’s shoulders, looking him carefully up and down before meeting his eyes. “You’ll call me if you need _anything_ , right?”

Jamie nods solemnly. “Yeah.”

“You’ll be smart?”

“Yes, Darth.”

“Okay.” Jordie hugs him and lets go, turning back to Juice so Jamie can’t see his face. “Have fun and be careful.”

Jamie finishes his glass before he answers. “Justin’s going with me. And it’s open play night, a million people there. It’s cool, Jordie.”

“I know. I want you to go and have fun.”

Jamie raises an eyebrow at the back of Jordie’s head. “But?”

“But, nothing. Go and have fun. And if you need anything, _call me_.”

Jamie huffs and puts his glass in the sink. “I will, for the third time.”

“It’s my job to look out for you, kid. Big brother powers.”

“What’s your excuse for fussing over Justin, then?”

“Best friend powers. Plus his parents would be so disappointed in me if anything happened to him. I couldn’t take it.”

“Nothing’s going to happen.” Jamie steps closer and bumps his head against Jordie’s shoulder. “See you in the morning?”

“That’s how it works.” Jordie straightens and pulls him into a quick hug, then pushes him back gently. “Get outta here.”

“I gotta wait for Justin!”

“Courts!” Jordie yells toward the stairs. “Get down here and take my brother out to be debauched.”

“You guys are so freakin’ loud.” Justin comes down the stairs in tight jeans and a mesh tank top. Jamie has no idea how he comes up with this stuff, much less how he manages to pull it off. But Justin’s just like that. Confident and good at looking good. Probably why he usually does better than Jamie at open play night, honestly. That and he’s a switch who likes to dom. Way less competition that way.

“Let’s go, Jay.” Justin waves him out the door. “Good job with your hair. You look hot.”

Jamie makes a face at him. “Don’t.”

“It’s true. If it was allowed, you would totally get boned tonight.”

“But it’s not.” Jamie climbs into Justin’s car and sighs, sliding the seat back so he can stretch his legs. “So let’s hope I totally get spanked instead.”

“You will. I wanna smack you just looking at you. Oh wait, that’s because I know you.”

“Mean.” Jamie closes his eyes and takes slow breaths, nice and deep, in and out. Going out to play is exciting, but it’s nerve-wracking, too. What if nobody wants to scene with him, what if somebody _does_ but they’re creepy or annoying, what if he can’t find his headspace, what if he bruises in a weird visible way he has to explain for a week, what if, what if. Shutting up the what-ifs is the crappy part of the night.

Justin leaves him alone while he drives; he understands that Jamie needs a little time and space. At one point he reaches over and rubs Jamie’s thigh a little, a gentle, grounding touch that he keeps in place until he has to park the car down the block from the club.

“Ready?” he asks softly, and Jamie nods, blinking and sitting up straighter.

“Yeah. ‘m good.”

“I’ll find you when I’m done, okay? If you’re done first, just find a table and wait for me.”

“Yeah.” They can never predict which one of them will be done first. Watching Justin play with somebody else can be weird for Jamie’s head when he’s still coming down, whereas watching Jamie get fucked up is one of Justin’s favorite things. He thinks Jamie’s pretty like that. Not pretty as in sexy, but pretty as in _art_. Jamie doesn’t get it, but he trusts Justin. Always.

They walk to the club and check in with the bouncer, who is completely bored by them, as usual. It’s a regular bar with a downstairs room that one of the local BDSM groups rents out once a month. Jamie’s a member of three local groups, while Justin’s in two, one of which doesn’t overlap with Jamie’s. They’re covered for pretty much every open play night in the city limits, but this is the one they come back to the most. 

The rules are no alcohol or drugs, no penetration, no fluid exchange. Jamie doesn’t mind so much when he’s seeing somebody on the regular, but it’s been a while now since that’s been the case. It’s tricky to remember not to ask the guys he hooks up with out in vanilla space to slap him, and not to hope that the people he scenes with will jerk him off. His signals get crossed when he’s not careful.

As for finding somebody who wants both sides, to date him _and_ to play rough… fuckin’ forget it. He’s had zero luck there and he’s given up looking.

Things are already started when they get downstairs. St. Andrew’s crosses are set up in two corners of the room, both in use when Jamie’s eyes adjust to the light. There are a few subs in collars and leashes walking or crawling behind their masters; the guy who always shows up in full pony gear is in the far corner being petted by a few women and hand-fed snacks by a man in a cowboy hat.

Jamie likes coming to these nights. He and Justin in their street clothes fit in just as well as the people who go all out. Everyone’s comfortable with everyone else. There’s respect and stuff. It’s nice.

He doesn’t want _too_ much respect tonight, though. He wants someone to knock him around and make him dirty. 

Justin touches his arm and Jamie blinks, tearing his gaze away from the flogging in the near corner to meet Justin’s eyes again. “Tina’s here,” Justin says, nodding at the bar. “I’m going to go talk to her. You okay?”

“Yeah.” Jamie follows him across the room, leaning into the near end of the bar while he keeps moving toward Tina. “I’ll see you later.”

They have to provide a volunteer bartender for play nights, since it’s just water, soda, and ginger ale and the club’s regular bartenders won’t make enough in tips to make it worth their time. Jamie vaguely knows the guy volunteering tonight—they’ve never scened together, but Jamie remembers seeing him around, and they’ve both been at a few of the same private parties, the ones where fluid exchange and penetration are very much allowed. If he’s been invited to more than one of those hosted by people Jamie trusts, he must be at least generally okay.

“Hey,” he says, tapping his fingers on the bar. “Dave, right?”

“That’s me.” Dave grins at him and gestures at the row of bottles behind him. “What can I get you?”

“Water, please.” Jamie glances back over his shoulder at the crosses. The guy tied to the left one seems to be winding down; his scene partner isn’t hitting him anymore, but leaning in close and whispering in his ear. Jamie wonders if she would be willing to go again with him, or if she only plays with that guy. It’s always awkward to ask.

“You want to use the cross?” Dave asks, putting a bottle of water on the bar and twisting the top free.

Jamie nods in thanks and takes a drink, giving himself a beat before he answers. “Yeah. I mean, if I can find somebody.” 

“As soon as Angie can spot me, you’ve got somebody, if you want.”

“Oh!” That works out well. Jamie tries to look Dave over without it being obvious. He’s looked before, obviously, but now it’s a real _maybe_ , and that’s different. Tall, big hands. Short-sleeved shirt that shows off some good muscles. Might have a little bit of edge hidden away behind that easy smile.

“Sure,” Jamie says, taking another quick drink. “That would be great.”

**

It’s not great. 

It isn’t Dave’s fault; he’s courteous and careful, and good at getting Jamie positioned and bound. His warm-up hits with the flogger are steady and well-spaced. He works his way up to full-on hits at a good pace. It’s fine.

But Jamie can’t quite get into it. It just hurts, in a bad way; he never slips over into the headspace where it’s a challenge, where grappling with the pain is good. It doesn’t turn hot and sweet and make him shiver. It doesn’t turn him on. It just hurts, and it kinda sucks. After about three minutes of Dave hitting him heavy, Jamie shakes his head and raps his knuckles against the cross, tapping out.

Dave stops and drops the flogger to the floor. “You okay?”

Jamie shrugs, shifting his weight back and forth against the restraints. “It’s not clicking for me. Sorry, man. Not your fault.”

“Oh.” 

His voice carries a lot even in that one word. “Sorry.”

“I could try something else? I mean. I hate to leave you high and dry.”

Part of Jamie is desperate to try something else, to see if they can get this to _work_ , because he fucking needs it. But he knows himself well enough to know that if he isn’t getting there, he’s not gonna get there. The chemistry’s off or something. 

“I don’t think so,” he says, tugging a little at the restraints again. “I think I’m gonna have to bow out. Sorry, again. Just not working for me.”

Dave nods and moves to undo the restraints, his face red with embarrassment or disappointment or something. Jamie tries not to look right at him; why make it worse by acknowledging it? He just wants to step down, get his shirt back on, and retreat back to the bar. Pretend this never happened.

Dave seems to have the same plan. He doesn’t talk to Jamie again after he’s free and has his shirt on, just walks across the room to the hallway with the bathrooms. Jamie sees a few other subs glancing after him speculatively; hopefully one of them will follow and offer to scene with him. Jamie would have to ruin his whole night just by not being able to shift his damn gears.

He gets a ginger ale at the bar and retreats to one of the far tables to drink it and watch the rest of the room play. Justin has two girls kneeling at his feet, giggling while he strokes their hair. Good for him. 

Jamie takes another drink and scans the next section of the room, looking for anyone he recognizes. A few guys from other play nights, but nobody he knows beyond sight and maybe a quick round of impact play. Nobody he feels comfortable interrupting to talk. Shit, he might be here another couple of hours before Courts is ready to go, and he’s gonna get so damn bored.

He shifts in his seat, testing the sting of the welts where Dave got him with the flogger before he tapped out. Self-stimulating, figuring out the pressure for himself, gets him a little bit of a rush; not enough to make him feel floaty but at least it’s distracting, better than staring at the wall or watching Justin’s scene or—

“Jamie?”

He half-chokes on his ginger ale, clapping his hand over his mouth to keep from spitting, and turns toward the voice. It’s a man standing behind his chair, shadowed in the club light, and it takes Jamie a moment to see his face clearly.

“Hi,” he says, hearing how dumb his own voice sounds but not able to catch himself. “Mr. Sharp. Hey.”

“Please, when I'm here I _really_ want to just be Patrick.” He's smiling when he says it, so the flush of embarrassment that goes through Jamie is just awful instead of unbearable. “This is a surprise.”

“Yeah. Definitely.” He casts around for something else to say, but his brain has gone blank in self defense at the weirdness of seeing a client here. “Uh. A good surprise or a bad one?”

Patrick laughs softly. “A nice surprise. Seeing you sooner than two weeks is really nice.”

“How are you feeling? Your back and your hip and… and everything?”

“Good. You do good work.” Patrick gestures at the table. “May I sit? Are you waiting for someone?”

“My roommate. He’ll… he’s gonna be a while. Um. Are you? Waiting for someone? Or here with someone, I mean?” God. He’s ruining this.

Patrick just sits down and smiles at him again, though. “I’m not. Waiting, or here with someone. Just thought I’d take a look, see if I ran into anyone interesting.”

Jamie nods and takes another drink. “Lots of interesting people here, ‘s true.”

“Yeah. For example.” Patrick gestures at him. “There’s you.”

That’s… huh. “That’s nice of you to say. I don’t think you know me well enough to call me interesting, though, do you?”

“We could get to know each other better.”

Okay, yes, that’s definitely what he thought. “Patrick. You’re a client. I can’t… um. You can’t flirt with me. Or, well, you can, but I can’t flirt back. Or… or do anything. You know. Because you’re a client and I’m a professional.” He’s pretty sure he just sounded like a douchebag, but he has to say it. It’s important. It’s the rules.

Patrick sits back in his seat, blinking a bit. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize… I thought that was just during sessions, things had to be kept separate. I thought running into each other out in the world like this was different.”

Jamie shakes his head, pushing down the little twinge of regret that wants to plaster itself all over his face. “It’s, um. It’s not allowed, really. Sorry.”

“Please, don’t apologize. I’m the one who made the mistake, I should apologize.”

“You already did,” Jamie points out, and god, why can’t he just drown himself in his ginger ale and stop talking?

“Well. I apologize again, formally. I promise I’ll respect your boundaries from now on.”

Jamie nods, clutching at his glass. Boundaries, right. Keeping people out and him in. That’s the way it has to be. “Great.”

Patrick spreads his hands on the table. “Can we still talk, though? Chat as acquaintances? Who apparently have an interest in common?”

“A couple interests.” Patrick cocks his head, and Jamie clarifies, glad that the dim lighting hides his blushing. “Hockey and massage and… and this.”

“This. Yes.” Patrick looks around the room, his eyes lingering here and there with a hunger that Jamie recognizes. He feels the same way. Why isn’t it _working_? “What’s your preference?”

“Oh. Uh.” Jamie takes another drink. “Sub. And bottom and masochist, the whole package, I guess.”

Patrick doesn’t look surprised, or question him, or laugh awkwardly like a lot of people do. He just nods. “So how come you’re not up there getting beat on?”

Jamie’s relieved enough to relax a little and make a face as he shrugs. “It’s not clicking tonight, for some reason. I tried. Just couldn’t get there. I had to tap out.”

Patrick nods again, his gaze drifting to the cross in the far corner, where a green-haired woman is wailing eagerly while her partner smacks her with a riding crop. “That sucks, I’m sorry.”

“What about you? What’s your, uh, preference?”

Patrick’s mouth twitches, his eyes still on the scene across the room. “Exact opposite of you.”

“So how come you’re not over there beating on someone?”

“Same reason. Nobody clicking.” Patrick shakes his head a little and looks down at the table, then gets to his feet. “I’m going to get a drink myself. You want another one?”

“Sure. Thank you.” Jamie watches him go, then looks back over to Justin’s table. He’s got his fingers hooked in one of the girl’s collars, tugging steadily while he whispers in her ear. Jealousy makes Jamie’s stomach turn hot and flip over. Fuck.

Patrick seems to pick up on the vibe when he comes back, frowning a little as he sets the drinks down. “You okay?”

“Fine.” Jamie turns his chair so he won’t be tempted to look that way again. He’s going to focus totally on Patrick. Just like at a session: he’s going to listen, not just to the words but to the body. He knows how to do this, and it’s better than sulking. “So you’re out of hockey. What are you doing now?”

“Investing. Well. Other people do the investing. I sign paperwork and take phone calls and tell them they’re doing great.” Patrick settles in his chair and shrugs. “It’s boring but it’ll do for now. I’m hoping to get involved in some charity or cause work soon, but for the moment, I am an idle rich guy with a bum hip. It’s not as fun as you might think.”

“Except for the bad hip, I think that’s the dream, isn’t it?” 

“It is. I shouldn’t complain. Please, feel free to throw your drink at me.” He’s smiling, and Jamie smiles back. This isn’t too bad. Maybe he can do this after all.

“Tell me something else about you,” he says, watching how the dim light plays off Patrick’s curls. 

“Like what?”

“Where are you from?”

“Thunder Bay.” Patrick takes another drink and squints at him. “I think it’s your turn to tell me something, now.”

Jamie nods; that’s fair. “Victoria, BC.”

“Not what I was going to ask, but good to know.” Patrick laughs softly. “So you’re local, more or less?”

“We don’t think of it that way. But to somebody from Thunder Bay, yes.”

“What do you think of it as?”

Jamie shrugs. “Being from the Island.”

“That sounds kind of poetic.”

“It’s all right.” Jamie looks around and tries to think of anything else to talk about, but it’s like he’s lost everything else he’s even thought about, ever, in his life. “Uh. What do you…”

Patrick leans in conspiratorially, a smile playing at his mouth. “It’s okay. We can talk about it if you want to.”

Jamie’s brain goes even more blank, a flush of heat running through his body. “Huh?”

Patrick leans in even closer and grins like they’re sharing an awesome secret. “Hockey.”

“Oh!” Thank god. Jamie grins back, relief flooding through his body strongly enough to make his toes curl. “Yes! Let’s… yes. What’s even going on with the Pacific, you know? I feel like I can’t keep up.”

**

“Who was that guy you were talking to?” Justin asks on the way home. Jamie’s driving, because Justin is floating on good dommy endorphins and Jamie doesn’t want him to wreck his vibe. Or wreck the car, since when Justin’s on good dommy endorphins he’s kind of aggressive. If Jamie had scened he wouldn’t care and Justin would be protective of him, but since he didn’t, well, he might as well be a nice guy.

“Patrick,” he answers absently, hitting the turn signal. 

“You know him? You guys looked friendly.”

“No, we’re not… not friendly. He’s one of my clients.”

Justin’s eyebrows go up a little. “Yeah? He’s cute.”

“He’s a client. They can’t be cute.”

“Of course they can. And he is.” Justin nods and looks out the window, drumming his knuckles against the glass. “You should go for it, Chubbsy, you’ve been single and moaning about it for too long.”

“I don’t moan about it.”

“Your attitude moans about it. Your aura.”

“Nope.”

“Jamie.” Justin laughs a little and looks at him again. “Why are you so stubborn?”

“I’m just me, man.”

“You definitely are that.” His attention drifts out the window again. “He was really into you, though.”

Jamie’s stomach twists a little. “No he wasn’t.”

“He so was. He wanted to tie you up and make you beg a little. Trust me, I can recognize that look, it’s one I’m familiar with.”

“Since when do you want to tie me up and make me beg, eh? Thought you saw me as a brother.”

Justin shoots him a look, one that’s maybe a little fiercer than he intended what with his happy dom brain and all. Jamie’s stomach twists again, in a hot hopeful way that’s not going to get any resolution right now. “Don’t tease, Jamie.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Jamie pulls up the curb and parks, taking a deep breath and willing all the parts of his brain and body that are threatening to get excited back to their corners. “Glad you had fun tonight.”

“Next time just come get me. I can scene with you. Not like we haven’t done it before.”

“You were having fun with the girls.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t help you out.” Justin waits a minute, then taps Jamie on the shoulder when he doesn’t respond. “Next time we’ll make sure you have fun, okay? One way or another.”

“Sure.” Jamie nods and pulls the keys out of the ignition, glad that the streetlights suck enough around here that he doesn’t have to bother trying to smile. “Definitely.”

**

He keeps things strictly professional at his next appointment with Patrick. Doesn’t let Patrick lead the conversation, doesn’t let any long pauses open up where things might get weird. He keeps everything focused and does his job.

He catches Patrick smiling faintly once or twice, and watching Jamie with a look in his eyes like he thinks he knows something, but it’s pretty easy to ignore him. Patrick doesn’t _say_ anything, and that’s what matters. Jamie can’t do anything about what people think, but he can keep anybody from _talking_ about it.

Patrick hands him his tip envelope at the door when Jamie’s leaving, that slight smile on his face again. “Thanks again.”

“It’s my job.”

The smile slips, and Patrick sighs. “Look, I’ve obviously made you uncomfortable, which is the opposite of my intention.”

“I’m not uncomfortable.” He knows his voice sounds the exact opposite of what he’s saying. “I just… I don’t like blurring lines. I like keeping things clear.”

“We didn’t blur the lines, though. We had a nice talk, we were friendly. That’s allowed, isn’t it?”

Jamie fusses with the envelope. “Being friendly is allowed, yeah. But… I mean. The situation. Where we were.”

“I know I made a… a suggestion, but you said no and we both were cool about it, I thought. I thought we left things on a good note. Did something change?”

Jamie’s face goes hot and red, and the envelope crumples a little between his fingers. “I guess I overthought things, maybe.”

“I really don’t want to make you uncomfortable. If you feel bad around me, that’s… Well. That sucks.”

“I don’t feel bad around you.” He really doesn’t. He feels worried about what kind of dumb shit he himself might do, and that’s very different. It’s not Patrick’s fault at all, and he shouldn’t feel bad about it. “Look, I’ll see you in two weeks, and I promise, I’ll be way more normal.”

“Okay.” Patrick nods and folds his arms over his chest, which catches Jamie’s eye just a little more than it should, the swell and curve of his biceps and his forearms. “I’ll see you then. But I promise, if you feel bad, I’ll come up with a way to ask for another therapist without throwing you under the bus and getting you in trouble. I don’t want that at all.”

“It’s not really your problem. My job status, I mean, that’s… that’s my problem, not yours.”

“I don’t want to fuck anything up for you.” Patrick’s looking at him so seriously, earnestly. It makes Jamie’s stomach twist up, hungry and wanting and _not_ something he can just allow.

“Two weeks,” he says, forcing a smile and slipping the envelope into his pocket. “I’ll see you then.”

**

Two weeks to get his head on straight should be plenty. The fact that it isn’t is extremely embarrassing. 

Jamie goes running every other day, and on the off days, he goes to the garage where Jordie works and lifts weights with his brother in the back room. He picks up two more clients. He cleans the kitchen from floor to ceiling, and one of the bathrooms. The cleaning impulse burns itself out before he gets to the second bathroom, but still; obviously this is a _problem_ that he’s having. This hunger in the pit of his stomach and constant itch in the back of his head, this… he can’t even come up with a concept to describe it. It’s just driving him around the bend.

The night before he’s next scheduled to see Patrick, he gives up and goes to Justin’s room, knocking on the door steadily until Justin starts swearing and yanks it open in front of him.

“ _What_?” Justin’s disheveled, his face stubbled and his eyes bleary. Jamie belatedly realizes that Justin is in the middle of midterms. Shit. Bad timing.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Just. Uh.”

“Uh what?” Justin’s frustrated voice veers awfully close to his dom voice. Jamie’s stomach twists and flips again. “Jamie?”

“Uh. Well. Jordie’s out with the guys from work. At the bar, I guess. He’ll be out late.”

“That’s nice?” More frustration. Jamie’s pulse throbs in the base of his throat.

“You said I could ask you if I decided I maybe need some help,” he says finally. “Uh. I think I maybe need some help.”

Justin drags his hand through his hair, staring at Jamie in annoyed bafflement, and _god_ , Jamie kinda wants that annoyance to turn into a slap. “Help with what, Jamie?” 

“The thing. Um.” Jamie clears his throat roughly and shrugs. “Need you to hit me.”

“Oh.” Justin rubs his face and nods. “Right, yeah. Of course. Come in, dude. Give me a minute to pull myself together.”

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to! I mean, we don’t have to right now. Just, you know, Jordie’s out, so… I thought maybe it would be easier than asking him to ignore us, you know?”

“Yeah, for sure.” Justin goes over to the chair in the corner of his room that’s piled high with clothes and starts rooting through them. “It would make him pretty uncomfortable if we scened while he was home.”

“Yeah. Boundaries.” Jamie chews at his lower lip while Justin pulls his gear bag out from under the clothes. “Do you want me to get undressed or anything?”

“Well, tell me what you’re in the mood for, first.”

“I don’t know, I just want you to hit me.”

Justin takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Dammit, Jamie. Okay. Hand, paddle, or flogger?”

Cutting down the options helps. Knowing Justin is in charge helps. “Paddle. Please.”

“There we go. Good job.” Justin unzips the bag and starts poking around. “Get undressed and bend over the bed. Find a position you’re comfortable in.”

Instructions help even more. Jamie can almost feel the anxious, whirring part of his brain shutting off as he does what Justin said. He strips down, balls his clothes together on the floor, and then bends over the bed, bracing himself on his forearms and letting his head sag, his hair falling forward to touch the mattress and form a veil in front of his eyes.

He hears and feels Justin step up close behind him, then the warm slide of Justin’s hand down his back to his ass. Justin palms each of his cheeks lightly, like he’s making sure everything is where it belongs, then pats him and pulls back.

“Ready?” he asks softly, and Jamie tenses up, every muscle bracing for the impact that’s coming soon.

“Answer me, Jamie. Are you ready?”

“Uh-huh. Yes.” Jamie swallows hard and tries to relax, but he can’t help it, the tension grows and blossoms and twists in his stomach, cramping in his thighs. He wants it _so_ much, the first sharp sting of pain, but it hasn’t come yet, and Justin’s _talking_ again, teasing him, instead of _doing it_.

“I’m gonna want you to count these off. Are you listening, Jamie?”

“Yes!” Jamie lets his head drop to the mattress. “I’ll count, I’ll be good, just, please, Justin, please just hit me already, just—”

The first hit is solid and firm, lighting up the space behind his eyes with white sparks that fade to a solid red glow. He knows that wasn’t as hard as Justin can hit—it was just a warm-up—but it’s so _good_ , so perfect. It knocks his whole brain silent instantly, leaves him with nothing to worry about but the pain radiating outward from where the paddle met his skin.

He finally remembers to gasp “One,” and then Justin brings the paddle down again, the same level of impact on the other cheek, and Jamie rocks forward and back, against the mattress and then back into his heels, letting the pain move through him like sound waves.

Justin takes him up to ten hits, getting steadily harder, then steps back, letting Jamie catch his breath around watery, choked gasps. Justin moves around the bed to where he can see Jamie’s face, shaking out his wrist. “Doing okay, bud? It’s what you wanted?”

Jamie nods, blinking away tears and trying to shake his hair out of his face so he can see Justin better. Justin reaches down and takes care of it, tucking the sweaty strands back behind Jamie’s ears, and Jamie _loves_ him at that moment, loves him so much for knowing what Jamie needs and providing it. “‘s perfect, Justin. Need it so much. Please.”

“You want more?”

“ _Need_ it.” His voice is desperate and whiny and begging and it makes Justin smile, which makes Jamie love him _more_. God. It’s so awful and wonderful and he never wants it to stop, never wants this twisted-up knot in his chest to ease. It’s so different from the other knot that lives there half the time, the one made up of frustration and anxiety. This one is love and yearning and anticipation, bracing for the next smack and how sweet hot painful good it’s going to feel. He loves it so much, feeling this way, belonging under a dom’s hand. It’s perfect.

Justin pets him some more and then moves back around behind him. “Start over at one for me, Jamie. Keep counting. Are you ready?”

“Yes.” He rests his head on the mattress again and braces himself just in time for it to start again. Another series of ten good, hard smacks, and by the time it’s over his knees are wobbly and his weight is held up more by the bed than by his legs.

Justin runs his hand slowly over Jamie’s lower back. “Okay. You’re doing so good. You want five more or are you done?”

“Five more.” The words slur a little and Jamie tries to clear his throat. “Please.”

“Okay. You don’t have to count these. Just take it for me.” Jamie nods and slumps forward harder onto his arms, and Justin hits him once, twice, three—

“Oh!” That hit clips him across the tailbone, and the burst of pain behind Jamie’s eyes is the wrong kind, sharp and electric and _bad_. 

“Shit,” Justin mutters, dropping the paddle on the bed. “Fuck. Sorry, buddy, I missed, I didn’t mean to do that. Are you okay?”

Jamie nods, pressing his face into the blankets and screaming silently, just a hot rush of air. It _hurts_. The wrong way. Dammit.

“Okay. Okay, Jamie. Deep breaths for me. Nice and slow. You’re all right.” Justin keeps up a low, steady stream of words, his hands rubbing soothingly over Jamie’s sore ass, avoiding the tailbone that’s probably going to bruise like hell. “Will you be okay for a few minutes while I get you some water and an ice pack for that?”

Jamie nods again, blinking tears into the blankets. He always cries after a good scene, it’s normal, but this one is more mixed feelings than he likes. Not all good. God, he finally got what he wanted and it _still_ can’t be all good.

“Up on the bed, first. C’mon.” Justin guides him up onto his belly on the bed, shifting him around until he can rest his face on the pillows. Justin’s hands are gentle and kind, helping him, and Jamie loves him so much, he really does. It’s not Justin’s fault he made a mistake. It’s just Jamie being fucking cursed, that’s all.

Justin is gone for a few minutes, long enough for Jamie’s breathing to steady and the tears to stop leaking from his eyes. He feels sluggish and heavy, not floating like after a really good scene, but at least there’s a little bit of relief under it all. He got the pain he needed, just with a shitty cherry on top.

Justin sits on the edge of the mattress and offers Jamie a glass of water. “Drink. Small sips. I got you.” Once Jamie’s swallowed half of the water, Justin sets the glass aside and places a towel-wrapped baggie of ice on his tailbone. It sets the pain off again, making Jamie whine and squirm, but Justin pets him through it, and eventually it’s okay. 

Jamie’s head is blurry and tired and slow. “Okay” is the best label he can put on anything.

Justin kisses the top of his head. “Sleep a little bit. I’ll hang out here with you, it’s okay. Don’t have to move til Jordie gets home.”

“Thanks, Courts,” Jamie whispers, his eyes already closed.

“Anything for you, Jay.” Justin’s voice is so warm, so full of affection. Jamie wishes again, for like the six hundredth time, that they could just fall in love. It would be so great.

That’s not the way they work, though. He wouldn’t trade what he does have with Justin for anything less than real, forever-love. Not ever.

**

When he goes for his next session with Patrick, Jamie feels a lot more grounded. He smiles when Patrick opens the door; he makes conversation like a reasonable human being; he agrees to a cup of tea afterward, even, instead of just water. 

Patrick smiles at him as he hands over the mug of some kind of fancy personalized blend. “You look like you’re feeling better today.”

Jamie blinks at him. “Better?”

“Than last time I saw you.” Patrick leans against the back of the couch, sipping carefully at his own mug. “You got some rest? Or got some… attention?”

It’s a genuine pause and search for the word, not an innuendo, but Jamie still feels a flush rise in his cheeks. “Um. Both, I guess.” He laughs a little, the sound coming out breathless. “You notice I’m not sitting down, eh?”

Patrick’s eyebrows dart up. “That good?”

“Not exactly? Well, yeah, it was really… really good, but he also frickin’ bruised my tailbone.”

“Oh no.” Patrick laughs hard enough that tea jumps out of his cup and runs onto the couch. “Ah, fuck. Anyway, I was going to say that’s a rookie mistake, but I’ve done it more often than I care to admit, too.”

“Yeah. He’s not a rookie, just…” Jamie shrugs, trying to hide his smile behind his cup. “He missed on the last one.”

“Yeah, that’s how it goes. You just miss.” Patrick straightens and walks back to the kitchen, tossing his next question over his shoulder. “So is this someone you’re seeing, or a friend, or…”

“Friend. Housemate. Me and my brother, we grew up with him, so… yeah. Friend.” Jamie knows he’s talking too much, but it’s hard to stop the words from bubbling up. He’s gonna have to stop them by drinking his tea.

“That’s cool, that you have somebody who can help you out. Somebody you know well and can trust and everything.”

Jamie swallows and nods. “It is good. Yes.” God. More tea.

Patrick comes back in with a towel and starts dabbing at the couch. “Did you, like, figure out the whole kink thing together? Or… am I getting too personal? I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” This is something that’s actually going to need a few words, so he cups the mug in his hands, studying the surface of the tea. “We didn’t, no. He went to college in Boston, he played hockey there. Came back to do his master’s when hockey was over. He came back already, like. Knowing stuff. And I’d kinda stumbled into it here. So we sort of kept bumping into each other in the same places and freaking out about it and he finally made me sit down and talk about it.”

“That must’ve been awkward as hell.” Another one of those bright, flashing smiles. “You know each other too well to date, though?”

“Pretty much.” Jamie thinks back to the last time he and Justin tried to have sex and wrinkles his nose. “It’s just not us. But I love him like a brother.”

“That’s really great.” Patrick’s quiet for a moment, then lays the towel over his shoulder. “So I want to ask you something, but I really don’t want to make you uncomfortable. If it feels weird, or anything, just… tell me to shut up, and I won’t bring it up again. Okay?”

Jamie’s stomach twists. “Uh. Sure?”

“One of the groups I’m involved with, the kink groups, I mean, they do demonstrations every few months. Fancy demonstrations, not just getting a room in a community center basement or something. They rent a space, they cater it, there are drinks for the audience, it’s all very… well.” He makes a face. “It’s all very pretentious, actually, but the demonstrations are great, and then they have open play afterward. I get tickets to all of them, since I’m a member, and a friend was going to go to one next weekend with me, but he had to cancel.” 

He stops, looking expectantly at Jamie, and Jamie looks back, blinking slowly in puzzlement. It takes him a minute. “Oh, are you… do you want me to go with you?”

“I’m _inviting_ you to go with me. But you should absolutely feel free to turn me down. I don’t want to be weird.”

“What, um. What are they demonstrating this time?”

Patrick picks up an envelope from a side table and brings it over to Jamie. The invitation inside is heavy cardstock, embossed with some kind of fancy logo on one side and printed with information on the back. Jamie skims past the date, time, address, and finds the interesting part.

Shibari and fireplay. Definitely interesting. Catered snacks and drinks, too; he’d be an idiot to turn this down.

“If you’re sure I wouldn’t bring down your evening,” he says, glancing up at Patrick and rubbing his finger over the embossing. “I’d love to go.”

Patrick grins, sending a flash of heat through Jamie’s stomach. “You would elevate my evening, I promise. I can’t wait.”

**

Jamie makes it through the rest of the day and halfway through the next before his optimism wears off. He’s getting coffee after his first appointment of the morning when he realizes what he did.

He’s going to a _kink demo_. With his _client_. With his hot client who likes to punish people who like to be punished the way Jamie does.

Jamie puts his head down on the counter where he’s waiting for his drink. Shit. How is he going to get out of this?

He can’t, obviously. If he backs out he’ll make Patrick feel bad, and Jamie’s already been so weird at him that that doesn’t seem fair. He’s been hot and cold at him, friendly and rude, and he just—he just needs to be normal about this. 

Maybe he can think of it as like going to a movie. Sure, there might be sexy things going on in the movie, but that doesn’t mean he has to _react_ to them. Doesn’t have to make things awkward. Purely _aesthetic appreciation_ , like Justin says. 

“Large coffee, sugar, no cream, for Jamie,” the barista says, setting the cup down right next to Jamie’s face. The heat from it matches the temperature of his blushing. He makes himself stand up, take it, and get out of there, onto the sidewalk where the cool air can help him feel more human again.

He’ll go. He’ll just go. It’ll be fine. What can go wrong, really? He’s overthinking again for no reason, and the best thing he can do is stop thinking about it at all.

**

He does a good job of not thinking about it until the day before, when he realizes he has no idea what to wear.

He’s kept the invitation in its envelope on his dresser since Patrick gave it to him, just barely in sight and therefore mostly out of mind, in the interest of not thinking about it. Now he takes it out again and turns the card over and over in his hands, reading the words, flipping it, reading them again, like a dress code is going to appear.

He has Patrick’s number, of course. It feels unethical to use it for a personal reason like this, but Patrick _invited_ him, that must have created a loophole to check in just on that one thing. 

He has a beer before he does it. Two beers. Just enough to take the edge off. Then he goes through his customer contacts, finds Patrick’s number, and types.

_Hi Patrick this is Jamie. Massage guy. Just want to make sure we’re still on for the thing tomorrow._

_The thing_ —that’s clumsy, but it’s the best he can do right now. He licks the last drops from the mouth of his beer bottle and waits.

Patrick answers promptly, which is good; Jamie doesn’t have time to talk himself into going for a third beer. _Hi! Glad to hear from you, I wanted to make sure we were still on too._

Okay, that’s great, that’s positive. Jamie holds the rim of the bottle between his teeth and types again. _Is there a dress code or anything? Don’t want to look wrong or embarrass you._

_No specifics, people will be in everything from fetish gear to formalwear. What you wore to play night is fine. You looked awesome. Opposite of embarrassing. :)_

That’s—oh. Nice to hear. Jamie squeezes his eyes shut and then puts the bottle down on the bed before he bites hard enough to crack his teeth or something. _OK. Thanks._

He puts a little extra effort in when he’s getting ready the next day; he takes his time shaving and uses some of the fancy aftershave his mom gave him for Christmas, he fusses with his hair until he gets it perfectly in place and immobile, and he made sure to wash his jeans so when he puts them on they’ll be really tight. Looking at himself in the mirror, he feels pretty good. Better than he did on that play night, so if Patrick liked that, he’ll really like this.

Not that he’s trying to impress Patrick, he reminds himself. This is just a thing they’re doing as friends. He’s gotta be normal.

He takes the invitation from its envelope and tucks it carefully in his pocket, checks the mirror one more time, and heads downstairs, jingling his keys in his hand.

Jordie looks up from the TV and whistles. “Look at you. Where are you going?”

“Meeting somebody for a thing,” Jamie mumbles, trying to keep Juice from rubbing fur on his legs.

“What kind of somebody for what kind of thing?” Jordie’s brow furrows. “Or is it a thing I don’t want to know details about?”

“Uh. Kinda.” Jamie shrugs. “It is, but watching, not… doing? It’s a demonstration. Just gonna sit and watch.”

“Oh.” Jordie snaps his fingers and calls Juice back to the couch. “Well. Have fun and stuff.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Jamie goes to run his fingers through his hair and catches himself, just patting the careful arrangement instead. “What are you and Courts gonna do?”

“Watch a movie and maybe walk down to the bar. Nothing exciting. We’ll be here when you get back.”

“Kay.” Jamie clears his throat and heads for the door, trying to tell himself not to feel weird. Jordie just worries, that’s all. It’s not _judging_. Just. It’s awkward.

Sometimes it feels bad, but he just has to deal with that. 

He takes a cab to the address of the demo, which is a way nicer place than where the play nights he goes to are held. They take his invitation at the door and direct him down the hall to a lobby where hors d'oeuvres are laid out on low tables along with flutes of champagne and pitchers of ice water.

Jamie fills a plate with little snacks and takes some champagne, glancing around the lobby for Patrick. No sign of him, which makes his stomach tense a little. If he just stands here alone for too long, strangers are going to walk up and start talking to him, and he’ll say something stupid, and then—

A gentle hand lands on his shoulder. “Hey, you found the place.”

Jamie turns, almost tipping his plate of food. “Hey! Yeah, I… yes. It’s really nice, I didn’t realize it would be so nice.”

Patrick is wearing suit pants and a button-down shirt, with a tie, and he looks so good Jamie instantly feels underdressed. Patrick’s smiling at him, though, the skin around his eyes crinkling deeply, and his hand is still on Jamie’s arm, slid down to near the elbow now. “I’m glad you like it. And that you helped yourself to the food, that’s good. Excuse me while I grab some. Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.”

Jamie nods and puts some canapes in his mouth before he says anything else. He doesn’t want to be awkward tonight. If he doesn’t say _anything_ , maybe he can at least come across as cool and mysterious instead of awkward. It’s his best chance.

But when Patrick comes back, he keeps asking questions, and phrasing stuff so it needs a reaction, and generally making it so Jamie has to respond or it would be rude. Patrick is, apparently, good at making conversation, and he’s good _enough_ at it that Jamie doesn’t feel completely at sea. He’s definitely not cool, but he’s less awkward than he was afraid of.

“So you grew up on Van Isle,” Patrick says, just as the lights dim and flash. “Oh. That means they’re about to start, let’s go find seats. Would be kind of funny if we missed the whole thing because we’re chatting.” He drains his glass and grabs another, passing it to Jamie before taking a second one for himself. “And hitting the champagne. Let’s go.”

Jamie’s grateful for the extra drink once they’re inside and seated. The stage area is set up with a massive, fancy St. Andrew’s cross, far more elaborate than anything he’s seen at a play night, and a long table with implements and rope laid out on it. The cross is at the back of the stage and the table is off to one side, though, because apparently the fireplay demo is going to be first. There’s a second, smaller table set up with bottles of alcohol and oil, lighters, and some things he can’t see from their seats off to one side. Even looking at those is enough to get his heart racing, though, and sweat prickling at his hairline and his neck. He gulps down his champagne and tries to stay still in his chair and look as calm as everyone else.

They’re all beyond calm, really; they’re practically disinterested. It’s like they’re people at the opera in a movie, performing an exaggerated version of how rich people act. Jamie’s worked with enough rich people to know it’s not necessarily like that. But this room…

It’s weird. It’s a reminder that he doesn’t quite fit in.

Before he can panic about it, though, the lights dim again and three people walk out onto the stage. There’s a man dressed in an elaborate black coat, which he removes with a flourish and hangs on the St. Andrew’s cross before taking a bow and smiling at the audience, greeting a few people in the first few rows. The other two are a man and a woman, both dressed in tiny undergarments and leather harnesses, with thick black collars around their throats. They don’t have leashes, but they trail behind their dom until he hangs up his coat, and then fall back to clearly rehearsed places on the stage.

The demo starts with a short speech about safety, which Jamie mostly tunes out, focusing instead on watching the two subs. They’re both just _pretty_ , standing quietly with their hands behind their backs and their eyes tracking across the audience, then flicking back to their dom, then to each other. The three of them are comfortable with each other, he can tell all the way from his chair, and it makes him even more eager to watch their scene.

The dom holds out his hand and the woman comes to his side, smiling as she places her palm in his. He has her kneel in front of him, facing the audience, and then carefully braids her hair and twists it up into a bun, securing it carefully to keep her hair safe from the flames they’ll be playing with. The quick, deft way he braids her hair, the gentle brush of his hand against her neck and shoulder afterwards, the smile on her face as she holds still and waits for him to finish… Jamie can’t look away, and his chest aches all the way up into his throat with yearning. He _wants_ that, a dom who wants to take care of him as much as they want to take him all the way to his limits. 

There’s no chance to calm down once the demo gets started in earnest; he’s never tried fire play, never been with anyone who wanted to do it, but watching these three makes him wish he could do it every night. The dom swipes alcohol over the subs’ skin and burns it off, arranges flash cotton on their bodies and lights it, swirls small torches in elaborate patterns around them while they tense up and stay perfectly still, no matter how close the fire gets to them. It makes Jamie feel breathless and lightheaded just to watch. 

He shifts in his seat and his thigh bumps against Patrick’s, startling him enough to tear his eyes away from the stage for a moment. Patrick’s face is flushed just a bit, his teeth worrying at his lower lip as he watches the performance. Jamie steals the moment to just look at him—his eyes and the strong line of his nose, his jaw, the way the flames on stage light his skin. Jamie’s pulse is throbbing and he wants to touch, so badly. He wants someone to touch him.

He wants _Patrick_ ; he’s known it since the beginning. He can’t have it, but he wants it. He wants Patrick to grab him by the jaw and put him on his knees. Or the throat—Patrick could grab him by the throat, could _force_ him down, could whisper in his ear exactly what’s going to happen if Jamie doesn’t obey. Patrick could take out a lighter and one of the torches the dom on stage has. He could light it and draw it in a slow arc over Jamie’s chest, close enough for him to feel the heat, close enough for his skin to flinch away, close enough to leave tender pink streaks of sunburn behind—

Patrick turns his head and catches Jamie’s gaze. His teeth slip, letting his mouth fall open on a soft huff of breath. “Pretty intense, huh?” he asks softly, leaning closer. “Have you ever tried it?”

“No.” Jamie has to lick his lips before he can keep speaking. “First time I’ve even really thought about it, but it’s—”

He can’t find the words, just gestures vaguely with one hand, but Patrick nods quickly, like he gets it. He pushes his hair off his forehead and glances at the stage again, then back to Jamie. “Same. It’s just intimate, you know? It’s all intimate, but this stuff that could really hurt if you slip, you know? That extra level of trust.”

Jamie wants to kiss him so fucking bad. “Yeah. Exactly. Intimate.” Saying the word makes his pulse pick up even more. It’s one of those words that evokes itself in a physical response, for him. Or maybe it’s being here, with the intimate thing happening nearby, getting him all worked up while he sits next to the guy he wants to do it to him. Probably that’s what’s evoking the physical response.

He makes himself look back to the stage, waiting for a long count of ten before he reaches up to push the sweat off his forehead and back into his hair. Hopefully Patrick won’t notice how much this is killing him.

There’s a short break between the two demonstrations, where the lights come up and the waiters pass around fresh trays of champagne. Jame takes two glasses, drinking them fast while he watches the rest of the crowd mingle and chat. He isn’t sure he can handle talking to anyone right now, but if he can manage it, it’ll only be with Patrick, not strangers.

Luckily, Patrick stays at his seat, his only concession to the break stretching his legs out in front of him. Jamie notices a slight wince and hiss of pain when he does that, and sits down in his own chair, twisting his fingers around the second empty glass. “Your hip acting up?”

“A little bit. I went running today, around the park, slipped in some mud and caught myself funny.” Patrick makes a face. “So my own dumb fault, really, not my hip acting up on its own.”

“Do you need me to look at it?” It must be the champagne that lets that slip out before he can catch himself. He bites his tongue right away, trying to look casual and normal, like it was no big deal to say that.

Patrick’s reaction does not play along. His eyes widen and his breath hitches before he answers, one hand coming up to push his hair back off his forehead. “Oh. You mean… make a special appointment? Or, like, you want to come over off the clock? Tonight?”

The _tonight_ is so fast, a little breathless; it’s soft but it knocks Jamie for a curve, actually making him twist in his seat. “I… I don’t know, what do you… I mean, what do you need, it’s all about making you feel good. Better. Making you feel better.”

Amusement flickers in Patrick’s eyes, and something else— _heat_ —but the lights dim again before he answers, and Jamie turns stiffly back to the stage. His heart’s thumping in his chest, choking off his breath a little, and he isn’t sure he’s going to see a second of the rope demo because he’s going to die, right there in his chair, just drop dead of total humiliation.

Of course he doesn’t. Nothing is ever that easy. But to his surprise, the second demo sweeps him away just as much as the first. Maybe his emotions being heightened makes it easier to fall, but as soon as the domme introduces herself and picks up the first coil of bright red rope, the tension in Jamie’s chest starts to ease. Instead of getting turned on, he goes floaty, sinking into the calm, strong tone of her voice. Watching the rope wind neatly around the sub’s body, he feels like he’s going into subspace in parallel with her—not as deep, just a pleasant dip, but in the same rhythm. 

He’s aware of Patrick next to him, equally engrossed and equally relaxed, the dominant, sexual tension of before diffused away. He doesn’t doubt that Patrick wants to take him by the back of the neck and put him on the floor, and he knows that he would go so, so easily. But instead of throwing him down and hurting him, now he wants Patrick to pin him down and hold him in surrender. That doesn’t scare him right now, the desire. He’s okay with feeling it.

When the lights come up again, he still feels floaty and calm enough that he smiles at Patrick when they stand up. “That was cool,” he says, stepping out of the row of chairs so Patrick can pass him. “The whole thing. Just… amazing, right? Really beautiful.”

“It really was. I love coming to these. There’s always something interesting and… well, like you said. Beautiful. They invite people with so much talent and passion. It’s something else.” 

Jamie follows him out to the lobby again, caught up in the urge to linger and keep staring at Patrick until Patrick notices and tells him what to do. Or even better, notices and takes hold of him by his shirt collar, fingers curling against the fabric and knuckles pressing to Jamie’s throat. Then taking him home, and—

In the real world, Patrick fishes his keys out of his pocket and stands there awkwardly for a moment, jingling them in his hand. “So…”

Jamie blinks, pinching his thigh to get himself to focus. “So?”

“I guess you probably want to head right home, huh? You’ve probably got stuff to do tonight, or an early appointment, or something.”

Maybe it’s because Jamie’s still floaty, or maybe Patrick is genuinely good at keeping his voice inscrutable, but Jamie can’t tell what answer he wants. “Oh. Um… I mean, I was planning to, but I don’t _have_ to. Nothing in the morning. Nothing else planned tonight.”

“Yeah?” Patrick’s face lights up a little, and Jamie wants to bounce with joy. Guessing the right answer is great, a happy rush, because he made his master happy.

_Patrick is not your master_ , part of his mind screeches. He knows that, he does, and he’s not gonna be inappropriate, it’s just… it’s nice to pretend.

“Did you have something in mind?” Jamie asks, rocking up on his toes a little. He has to say no if Patrick asks him to come home with him, even for the massage they talked about before, but it’s gonna be hard to do it. He wants to do whatever Patrick wants him to do.

Patrick jiggles his keys some more. “You hungry at all? There’s a place a few blocks from here, it’s open late. One of my personal favorites.”

Jamie glances down at himself, trying to guess if his clothes were good enough for somewhere Patrick would consider a favorite. “Is it fancy?”

“Fancy?” Patrick laughs softly, slipping his keys back into his pocket. “No. I promise.”

Feeling kind of stupid takes the glow off his headspace, and by halfway down the block Jamie’s himself again; his embarrassed, borderline uncomfortable self. Was Patrick actually making fun of him, or just laughing in general, or… how is he supposed to know? Maybe he should’ve just gone home after all. Maybe this was a big mistake.

Patrick stops walking and Jamie almost runs into him, veering off at the last second to bump his shoulder against the building instead. Maybe he’d had a little bit more champagne than he’d thought. “This is it.” Patrick smiles at him again. “Does this look okay?”

“This is it?” It's a diner. Jamie expected some kind of private bar, an all-night speakeasy that requires a password to get in, but it's just an ordinary diner. 

“This is it.” Patrick holds the door for him. “I promised it wasn't fancy. The coffee's good and the breakfasts are perfect for a hangover.”

“I don't have a hangover.”

“Even better when you're still drunk.”

“Better than perfect.” Jamie follows him to the host's station, where a handwritten sign tells them to seat themselves, at this hour. “Cool.”

Patrick leads him to a table in the back, far from the windows. The table top is scuffed and carved up, and the covering of the booth seat crackles when Jamie sits down. He loves the place immediately.

A waitress comes by and pours them each a glass of water. “Coffee, too?” she asks, glancing back and forth between them. “You two look like you’ve had some fun tonight.”

Patrick turns his smile on her, and Jamie feels himself going half hard and half weak. “It’s been a nice evening. That’s why we came here, to keep it going.”

She smiles and shakes her head, tossing two menus in front of them. “Flattery won’t get you any discounts. We’re out of all the pie but there will be fresh cookies in a few minutes.”

“We will keep that in mind.” Patrick flashes her another smile, then turns his attention Jamie, his eyes going dark and intent. “Jamie? You want coffee?”

“Uh.” Jamie fumbles with his menu, giving in to the instinct to keep his eyes lowered, his whole head lowered really, bowing in submission to Patrick. It feels nice, doing that, and until he sobers up there isn’t really any harm in doing what feels nice. “I… coffee. Yeah. That’s… coffee. Thank you.”

“And I’ll have one too,” Patrick says. Once she’s walked away, he nudges Jamie’s knee under the table, smiling at him. “We’re going to be up all night, drinking coffee this late.”

“Already up all night.” Talking back _doesn’t_ feel nice, and he immediately veers away from it, frowning at the menu. “I’ll get tea next, maybe. When I finish it. Um. What’s good to eat here?”

“Everything’s good.” Jamie can feel Patrick’s eyes lingering on him, but when he glances up through his lashes, Patrick deliberately looks away. “I usually stick with the basics. Can’t mess up a burger, eh?”

“Yeah.” Jamie worries at his lower lip and then closes the menu. A burger’s fine. Anything’s fine. It’s just to soak up the last of the champagne buzz anyway. “How did you find this place? It doesn’t seem very—you.”

“No?” Patrick drags one hand through his hair. “It feels like me. I mean, the way I feel like me. I guess not the way me looks… _I_ look to the rest of the world. I’m still just some dumb kid from Thunder Bay, I don’t know.”

He must still be buzzing from the champagne too; Jamie’s never heard him speak like that, loose and fumbling. It’s as crack in the perfectly controlled Patrick he’s known so far, and part of him thinks that should help him get a grip on himself and stop wanting Patrick to dom him. 

No luck on that front, though. If anything, Patrick being imperfect means Jamie wants him _more_ , because if he’s not perfect it could really happen. Nobody perfect would ever put their hands on Jamie. That’s not how it works.

“Anyway.” Patrick shrugs, one eyebrow arching up toward his hairline. “Just stumbled across this place one day, walking around down here. I get restless if I sit still too long, and my hip stiffens up, so I take a lot of walks. I was hungry, so I stopped for lunch, and I liked it, so I’ve kept coming back. Not much of a story.”

Jamie nods and tries to think of something, anything, to say to that. “It’s nice,” is the best he can come up with. “I like it.”

The waitress comes back to get their order, breaking up the moment, but once she’s gone it’s just the two of them looking at each other again. Patrick’s smiling, and Jamie wants to smile back. He’s still tipsy enough to smile back, and lean forward a little toward the table.

“So,” Patrick says. “Tell me about you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your life story. How you got here. Or at least the parts you don’t mind sharing with some random old guy.”

“You’re not old.” Jamie works with a lot of people, some of whom are actually old. They’re sore and in pain and he helps them; he knows what an aged body feels like under his hands. Patrick has a banged-up body, but it’s not the same thing. 

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Older than you.”

“Doesn’t matter.” The drinks come and he steals another minute fussing over the cream and sugar, until he looks up and Patrick’s looking at him expectantly, with raised eyebrows, clearly waiting.

His whole body’s still itching to make Patrick pleased with him, to do something good that wins praise and affection and a hard slap to the ass. He _can’t_ leave him hanging.

“Well, uh.” Jamie takes a sip and squares his shoulders. “I’m from Victoria. The peninsula, I guess, not Victoria-Victoria, but… it doesn’t matter. On Van Isle. That’s where I’m from.”

Patrick nods. “You mentioned that. It’s a beautiful place.”

“It is. It’s amazing. I’ve got an older brother, and an older sister. She’s the oldest, then him, then me. Uh. She lives in Victoria, but he lives here, too, we live together. Us and one of our friends from back home.”

“What’s your brother’s name?” Patrick asks. “What does he do? I can’t imagine living with my brother, we’d drive each other crazy.”

“Me and Jordie get along really well. We’re… close, or whatever. We’re like friends.” He clears his throat and takes another drink. “He works at a body shop. Repair stuff, and painting. He wants to get into customizing cars full-time, but the boss is making him work his way up, you know. Gotta earn it.”

“Just like on the ice.” Patrick rests his chin in his hand. “I assume you all played hockey. Good Canadian boys, right?”

“Oh yeah. Me and Jordie and Justin, that’s our friend we live with. He goes to the play nights, too, you probably saw him. He’s the one I’ve played with, before.” He has to stop for a breath and remember what the question was. “Yeah, hockey crazy. Justin played for Boston University, actually. Got drafted and everything.”

“You and your brother didn’t?”

“Well.” Jamie looks down into his coffee, wishing he _could_ leave this guy hanging, could change the subject, could get himself back out of this. “I did. Low, but, yeah. Drafted. And a college commit. I played for Alaska-Fairbanks for a year.”

Patrick waits a moment, then raises his eyebrows again. When Jamie still can’t quite do it, he gestures, a little flick of his fingers away from his mug. “And?”

“I flunked out. Lost my scholarship.” It still hurts, after all this time. He shouldn’t let it hurt anymore. He should get over it. “They really tried to help me, but I really messed up. I couldn’t do it, so I came home.”

“College isn’t for everybody. Did you try for major junior after that?”

Jamie shakes his head, looking at his coffee again. It doesn’t even smell good anymore. If he drinks it, it’ll hit his stomach like a tiny bomb. “No. I was really… I was messed up, for a while. Depressed, I guess. I didn’t do anything for like six months, until my mom and dad kinda made me. And Jordie helped. Helped me, I mean, he didn’t help them make me, he helped me, like… figure stuff out, I guess.”

“That must have been hard.” Patrick falls quiet for a moment, and Jamie’s caught between wanting to look at him and never, ever wanting to, because if there’s disappointment on Patrick’s face he doesn’t know what he’ll do. “It’s good that you had him, though. That you guys have each other. Stuff’s easier when you’re not in it alone.”

“Yeah.” Jamie’s thought about that a lot over the years, about how much worse everything would feel if he didn’t have Jordie and Justin there in his corner. “Anyway. Uh. I had to either get a job or do a trade school kind of thing, and I ended up at massage school kind of by accident.”

“It sounds like there’s a story there.”

“Not so much. One of my mom’s friends heard there was a space left in the class and told her to tell me, and I thought, like, sports massage, I could still be around hockey even if I didn’t play.” He takes a breath and shrugs. “I was working and Jordie was working, and then Courts came home from college and took a year off applying to grad school and stuff, and he asked us to move here with him, so… we did.”

“That’s awesome.” Patrick sounds like he means it, and when Jamie glances up at his face, he looks like it, too. Which… huh.

“It’s not, though,” Jamie corrects awkwardly. “I mean. It’s just stumbling around, you know? Nothing big.”

“It’s your life, and you’re doing stuff you want to do. All three of you, it sounds like.” It’s Patrick’s turn to shrug. “What’s not awesome about that?”

Jamie bites his lip as the waitress returns with their food. “I guess. Yeah.”

Eating cuts off most of the talking, thank god, but Patrick keeps smiling at him the whole meal, a lot. Jamie blushes every time he notices it, leaving him with a warm squirmy glow in his stomach all the way through until he gets home.

**

He gets home around four AM, sleeps til ten, then has to scramble out of the house to make an appointment that luckily is in walking distance from their place. It goes okay—at least he doesn’t embarrass himself—and as soon as it’s over he stumbles to the nearest coffee shop. 

On autopilot, he texts Jordie and Justin from the line asking if they want anything, then walks home balancing the tray of drinks and his massage table, something he also does well on autopilot, as well as opening the door with his elbow and one foot, then dodging Juice on his way to the kitchen table.

Justin catches the tray before the drinks can do more then wobble. “Nice work, dude.”

Jamie grumbles at him and sets his case against the wall, then flops into a chair. “I feel like shit.”

“Hungover?”

“Only a little bit. Mostly just exhausted.”

Jordie comes down the stairs, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Who were you out with all night, anyway?” 

“Just this guy.” Jamie shakes his head when they both go all bright-eyed and excited. “Not like _that_.”

Justin sighs. “You’re no fun, Jay. You’ve gotta start hooking up and telling us good stories.”

“Why don’t you guys do that?”

“Because I’ve gotta study and Jordie believes in love.”

Jordie nods. “I do. I think love is a beautiful thing.”

“Maybe I believe in love, too,” Jamie says. “Maybe I’m saving myself for the beautiful thing.”

Jordie makes a face. “Yeah, no, it’s just not convincing when you say it.”

Jamie flips him off and they all settle into their coffee for a few minutes, while Juice circles the table underfoot. “So,” Justin says after a minute. “It wasn’t a hookup, but was it at least a potential setup for one?”

The two of them are relentless when they get going. “Not really. We just went to a kink demo and then got diner food after and talked for a while.”

“Oh.” Jordie’s face gets unreadable behind his coffee. “So it’s someone who’s into the stuff you’re into, huh?”

Shit. “Don’t start, dude.”

“I’m not! I’m not. Just… checking. And it’s no big deal if he is into it, as long as he’s, like, safe and responsible and stuff, because I trust you to know what you’re doing with your own body and… um… stuff.”

Justin nudges Jamie under the table with his knee, and they share a look for a moment before both turning to Jordie again. “You almost made it convincing this time,” Justin says. “Good job. B+ for effort.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Do what you want.” Jordie slouches in his chair. “I just want you to be safe, Jamie, that’s all. Use condoms and don’t let people put mousetraps on your dick.”

“Oh my god.” Jamie huddles behind his coffee. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Don’t _do_ things like that!”

“Enough,” Justin says firmly. “I’m calling it. Enough. Just drink your coffee and shut up, Darth. Jamie, I’m glad you met a nice boy who understands about things.”

“He is nice. But this isn’t, like, going anywhere. We’ll probably never even do anything. He’s a friend, I guess.” He’s a _client_ , but he can’t tell them that, not when they’re already making jokes about scening and fucking. He can’t do either of those things with a client, no matter how much he wants to. No matter how hot Patrick is. No matter what happened to Jamie’s stomach and heart and breath when he saw Patrick’s face watching the scenes on stage. 

He wants Patrick to do things to him that he hasn’t even thought of yet. But he can’t have it, and that’s all there is to say. He has to be cool about it.

There is not enough coffee in the world to make him able to promise that and make it stick.

“So what’s on the agenda for today, anyway?” He stands up to throw his coffee cup away. “I’m going back to bed for a couple hours, but what are you guys up to? What’s the plan for dinner tonight?”

“Nice change of subject,” Justin says. “But I’ll let you have this one.”

Justin’s the best of them, Jamie’s pretty sure. He should try to be as good as Justin.

**

At his next appointment with Patrick, it feels like something is in the room with them. The ghost of late-night diner past. 

“Are you okay?” Patrick asks at one point, when Jamie’s massaging his foot. Jamie stops, his thumbs digging into the arch. “Ow, ow. Easy.”

“Sorry.” Jamie eases his hold and then rests Patrick’s foot back on the table. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.”

“It’s nothing. Sorry. I won’t let it mess up my work.”

“You’re not messing up anything.” Patrick sighs and rolls over, the sheet twisting around his waist. “I’m trying to talk to you like a friend, not yell at you.”

Jamie’s stomach twists up. “Are we friends?” He knows the answer he wants, he’s pretty sure of what the _real_ answer is, and he just—he wants to hear it, so bad, but he doesn’t know what he’s going to do if he does.

Patrick looks up at him, eyes dark and serious. “Do you want to be?”

Not what he expected, and the drop from anticipation is a physical rebuke. “I don’t know.”

“Jamie…” Hearing Patrick say his name is still _strange_. Jamie stares down at the table and Patrick sighs again, rubbing his face with both hands. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” Jamie taps him on the leg. “Turn over so I can finish, eh? Your legs are still tight.”

“We need to talk about this.”

“No, we don’t.” Jamie keeps his eyes down and waits, refusing to budge, picturing himself as still and massive as a stone, holding his place until the rest of the world has to give in. And after a moment Patrick does. He turns over onto his stomach, adjusts the sheet again, and Jamie can get back to work coaxing his muscles and fascia and whatnot back to where he wants them to be.

Patrick’s quiet until Jamie is done. He sits up when the session is over, watching Jamie for a long moment while Jamie avoids looking back at him and wipes the extra lotion off his hands.

“Open play night is Saturday,” Patrick says. “Are you going to be there?”

It feels like he’s pinning Jamie with his eyes, like Jame can squirm and try to evade but he’s not going to escape, he’s not going to get anywhere. And he doesn’t want to, not really, even though he can tell that this is going to bring more trouble and make things _more_ complicated. This isn’t going to fix _anything_.

He wants Patrick to catch him, though. Deep down in his guts, god, he wants Patrick to chase him down and catch him so bad.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, I’m going to be there.”

Patrick nods and stands up, dragging one hand through his hair. The action turns his body into a line that Jamie’s eyes can’t help but trace, from his ankles up, and _linger_.

“I’ll see you there,” Patrick says, and the promise makes Jamie heat up all the way through himself. He can’t say anything, can only nod and turn back to packing up his stuff, but oh, god. 

He didn’t even feel himself making the decision, but apparently he did. A boundary bit the dust and he didn’t even feel it.

He doesn’t know how he’s going to make it to Saturday. He can’t wait.

**

Part of the answer is jerking off. So much jerking off. 

That takes some of the edge off, but there’s enough edge left that on Thursday night he’s mindlessly crowding up against Justin in the kitchen, getting in his way until it’s impossible for him to wash the dishes.

“What is wrong with you?” Justin asks in gentle exasperation, turning the sink off and facing Jamie, nudging him back against the refrigerator. “What’s gotten into you, dude?”

Jamie knocks into Justin again, pushing him toward the sink. “Nothing.”

“Quit it.” Justin catches his wrists and squeezes and Jamie whines, knowing he sounds bratty and dumb but not caring all that much. It’s safe to be bratty and dumb with Justin. Justin gets him.

Sure enough, Justin laughs and squeezes harder. “Ohh. Jamie, just _ask_ me when you need something.”

“I hate asking.” Jamie leans into his hold and Justin laughs again, shifting both of Jamie’s wrists into one hand and shaking the other out at his side.

“You’re ridiculous.” Justin slaps his face twice, then backhands the other side of it, pausing to judge Jamie’s response before backhanding him again. Jamie likes the strikes to be even, balanced on each side. 

“One more?” Jamie asks, tilting his head back. His face is all hot and the edge of his nose hurts where Justin’s watch clipped it, but still, it’s so good. Thank god Justin is here.

Justin gives him one more smack on each side and lets go of his wrists. “That still doesn’t answer the question of what’s gotten into you, you know.”

Jamie leans back against the counter and shrugs, pressing the backs of his hands to the hot red patches on his face. “Just need it, I guess.”

“I’ve got study group in like an hour, so I can’t mess you up, sorry.”

“It’s okay. This is good.” Jamie presses his hands harder against his face and blinks at Justin. “Are you coming to open play tomorrow?”

“I can’t, I’ve got a thing. You’d better go, though. Burn some energy off. Jordie won’t let you pick fistfights with him anymore.”

Jamie can feel himself blushing and hopes it won’t show under the redness from the slaps. “I’m going.”

“Good. Find somebody who can mess you up, okay?”

“I will. I mean. I’ve already got something… lined up, kinda. Maybe. Possibly.” He doesn’t want to say too much, because Justin is nosy as fuck and this has to be a secret. This is such a mess. “Should be fun, you know?”

“Good for you, dude.” Justin ruffles Jamie’s hair and turns back to the sink. “You want to help me with this?”

“No. But I will anyway.”

Justin laughs and pats him on the butt. “Good boy.”

**

Jamie makes himself wait to go to the club. He can’t get there right when the doors open, like usual; he’ll look overeager and weird. He needs to be cool about this. 

He ends up at a coffee shop instead, caffeinating himself into jitteriness while he watches his phone, waiting for it to be half an hour after the posted starting time. That’s the best he can do, he just can’t wait anymore. He’s already off his routine, drifting in the wind. He gave up his boundaries and now he doesn’t know what to do with himself, his thoughts, his body. 

There are only a handful of people there when he goes in, and Patrick is not among them, because it’s still way too early. He gets a ginger ale from the bar and retreats to a table in the back corner, huddling over his phone and his drink. 

Eventually more people trickle in, and scening starts. He watches from his corner, trying not to stare or gawk in a creepy way but just to, like. Appreciate. He looks and then looks away so he’s not staring, but every look-away is toward the door, watching for Patrick, so maybe it’s not quite as cool as he hoped for. 

He fidgets in his seat, turning his phone back and forth between his hands. He has Patrick’s number, he could text him, very casually, just seeing if he’s still going to make it or if something came up. That might be okay.

His thumb hovered over the icon for his contacts, and he pushed it away, grabbing his drink instead. No, it wouldn’t be okay. It would be pushy and weird. He just has to wait, and hope Patrick’s still coming, and that he’s still interested in Jamie. 

_Please still be interested_ , he thinks, finishing his drink and getting up to take the glass back to the bar for a refill. _Please don’t leave me hanging here, not tonight._ If he has to walk back from his own accidental decision, he might lose his shit.

It isn’t like he doesn’t have other options. There are other people in the club who he’s scened with before, and could again. It would be fine. Satisfying. Not _as_ satisfying as Patrick, his traitor brain reminds him; he remembers Patrick’s hands shifting and flexing as they watched the demos, Patrick’s eyes and his smile lingering on Jamie that night at the diner, the promise of the muscles and tendons Jamie knew really well by know from working on him every two weeks.

He’s pretty invested in the possibility of what things could be like with Patrick. It’s embarrassing; he’s way too deep in this fantasy and he should probably pull back to reality instead of throwing himself deeper into waiting and hoping. It’s stupid. He’s being stupid.

A hand settles on his shoulder and he jumps before Patrick’s voice reaches his ear, low and warm. “Hey, there you are.”

“Hey.” Jamie exhales, a sharp rush of breath that carries all the tension out of his body and leaves him wanting to collapse under Patrick’s hand. “You made it.”

“Yeah. Got caught in traffic, I’m sorry. Glad you didn’t find anyone else.”

“No, no.” Jamie swallows. “I was waiting.”

Patrick’s smile is slow and hot, exactly what Jamie craves. _What a good boy_ , it whispers. _I bet you’d crawl for me, just as good._

“Well, here I am,” is what he actually says, his hand sliding easily down Jamie’s arm to brush his wrist before it settles on the bar. “Let me grab a drink.”

Jamie bites back a sting of disappointment. “Oh, yeah, of course.”

“Just one,” Patrick says, his smile going a little sharper at the edges. “I promise. I want to do this too, you know.”

“Oh thank God,” Jamie breathes. 

Patrick _winks_ at him before he turns and asks for a Sprite. It’s a chance for Jamie to pull himself together and stop being embarrassing, but he can already tell he’s not going to do that. He’s going to stand here and vibrate with excitement until Patrick takes him in hand.

“What, uh.” He clears his throat, hesitating until Patrick turns back from the bar and blinks at him. “What did you have in mind? For me.”

Patrick frowns a little and licks the rim of his glass. “What did _you_ have in mind? It’s about you, you know.”

Jamie hates this part, the negotiation and navigation and putting what he wants into words. All he’s ever _really_ wanted is a dom who doesn’t ask, who can read his damn mind, so he never has to articulate the dark shifty gut-feelings he has about this at all. But it never works that way.

“I want you to hurt me,” he says, gripping the edge of the bar with one hand. “I want you to just, like… fucking take the top of my head off. I can take a lot. I want you to really… really take it out on me.”

“Oh.” Patrick sounds a little breathless. He takes a long drink and sets his glass down on the bar, and Jamie curls his hands into fists, willing himself not to shake, not to look desperate, not to beg. This is going to be good, his whole body knows it, but he’s still gotta wait for it.

Patrick’s hand curls around his wrist, startling him back to himself. He looks down at it for a moment, Patrick’s long fingers against his pale skin, then meets Patrick’s eyes. Patrick isn’t smiling now. 

Still, he knows his etiquette; he’s better at this than Jamie is, really. “Red-yellow-green okay? And any limits?”

“No limits we can hit here,” he says honestly. It sounds arrogant and stupid but it’s true; his limits are all out where his partner hits fluids. “And yeah, that’s fine.”

Patrick squeezes a little. “If this goes good maybe next time we can meet up somewhere I’ll need your safeword.”

Jamie’s breath catches in his throat. Fuck. “Okay.”

“Just okay?” Patrick’s smiling again, all teeth and hot eyes. “You don’t want me to promise?”

It’s an ache all the way through him, wanting to please Patrick, to say the right things. He knows Patrick is toying with him, teasing, and that he could back out of this part if he wanted to; focus just on the physical stuff and not the mental. He can miss this cue, shrug it off, and Patrick will adjust accordingly. Patrick’s _good_ at this, too good to not be able to roll like that. Usually Jamie does skip the mental stuff, because it’s harder for him to relax into, and he doesn’t know a lot of doms he wants to work for like that. Justin doesn’t do it unless they’re playing really seriously, going deep, and they haven’t done that in ages because Jordie’s around.

He wants to do it with Patrick, though. He wants to do it so much it should scare him, but he’s already too far in for that.

“I want anything you want, sir,” he says, and that word sets off a bloom of fire in his belly. From the way Patrick’s eyes light up, it works for him, too. “Anything.”

Patrick nods and squeezes his wrist again, then releases him to grab his bag. “Let’s go, then.”

The one empty cross is at the far end of the room, so they walk past everyone on their way there. Jamie feels on display, like Patrick is showing him off, even though nobody’s paying them all that much attention. They _could_ , if they wanted; if anyone did look they could see how excited and nervous Jamie is, how much he needs this. He feels more exposed than if Patrick made him take the walk naked.

Which he would have done, if Patrick had asked. Right now he’s pretty sure he would do anything Patrick asked. Anything to earn a smile and a word of praise, ideally followed up with a backhand.

Patrick puts his bag on the floor next to the cross and unzips it. “Flogger or crop?”

He’s all business now, his voice cool, and Jamie kneels down next to the bag to study the options. A basic flogger, not particularly soft or rough, and an equally basic riding crop. Part of him is surprised; after seeing Patrick’s home, he expected him to go for fancy things, specialized equipment. 

The rest of him doesn’t really care. He just wants it.

He picks up the crop carefully and runs it between his fingers. It’s worn-in, well-used. It has a nice smell of real, broken-in leather, and it might actually have started out its life in a barn, he thinks. For some reason that makes his dick even harder in his jeans. Maybe because it’s _real_ ; Patrick doesn’t just want to pose and play, he wants to use stuff that actual big animals can take.

Jamie knows he will feel very stupid about all of these thoughts in the morning. He always cringes at himself the morning after, at how excited he got, how much he begged for it, how carried away he _always_ gets when a scene is good and a dom gets into his head. 

Patrick’s so far into his head right now, Jamie isn’t sure he’ll ever get out again. He’s okay with that.

He offers Patrick the crop, from his place there on his knees. From the way Patrick smiles, either the implement or the position is exactly what he wanted to see.

“Get up,” Patrick says, taking the crop and slapping it against his thigh. “Shirt off and stand by the cross.”

Jamie does as he’s told, shivering a little as the cool air of the club hits his skin. He sweats so much when he’s nervous or excited, and right now he’s both. It’s one more thing he’ll be embarrassed about in the morning. Patrick doesn’t comment on it, though, just fastens his wrists and ankles to the cross with the straps affixed to it, checking each one with a brief murmur in Jamie’s ear and a pause for him to assent.

He steps back, out of Jamie’s peripheral vision. “Breathe,” he says, a reminder that Jamie badly needs, and Jamie does, deep and shaky. He’s ready—he thinks he’s ready—but he’s never _really_ ready, can’t really be prepared for that first impact, even if it’s a warm-up hit and not very hard it still sends fire racing through every nerve—

His body always wants to resist at first, no matter how much his brain needs it. He jerks back against the restraints at the first blow, and Patrick’s hand settles on the back of his neck, guiding him forward again.

“Relax,” Patrick says in his ear, low and hot and dark. _Scary_ , a little bit, just the way he wants it. “Relax and take it. I’ve got you.”

Jamie nods, then closes his eyes and leans on the restraints, bracing himself for the next stroke. Patrick’s hand slides off his neck and down his spine in a slow caress, and then the crop comes down again, harder this time.

He still resists it, and the next few strokes after; it’s instinctive, his body trying to escape the pain even though the rest of him wants it. Patrick’s patient and thorough, beating through his defenses, coaxing him step by step deeper into himself until he can get lost. Jamie finds that place inside himself, where everything _clicks_ into place and he can let go, riding the waves of pain and light behind his eyes while his body stays slack and accepting.

He doesn’t know how long it goes on; he hurts from the backs of his thighs all the way up to his shoulders, though Patrick’s careful, so damn careful, only hitting where’s got the muscle and fat to take it, never risking his kidneys or his spine. He laces the blows over each other, creating a lattice of bright red-white pain behind Jamie’s eyes, one that feels like it covers every inch of skin even though it doesn’t.

His dick is thick and heavy and half-stirring between his thighs, rising with adrenaline and pushed back by pain. Patrick stops hitting and steps closer, close enough that Jamie can feel the heat from the line of his body against his own. 

“God, look at you,” Patrick whispers. “Never seen anything like you, how you can take it.”

Jamie moans and tilts his head back, trying to see him, to touch him. Kiss, maybe. He doesn’t know exactly what he wants, just that it’s more contact than he has now, and more praise, and maybe one more sharp stinging burst of pain.

Patrick’s hand settles on his hip, tracking up his side to his ribs and then down and around to brush his knuckles over Jamie’s dick. “So good. I want to take you apart, you know that? I want to see you fall apart.”

Jamie nods and lets his head fall forward again, baring the back of his neck, the vulnerable curve of his spine. Patrick can do anything he wants to him. He trusts—on a raw gut-deep level he trusts—that Patrick won’t hurt him for real, won’t _damage_ him, but he could. He could, and Jamie couldn’t stop him, wouldn’t stop him, is completely in his hands.

“Tear you open with my hands,” Patrick whispers, his breath hot against the sweat running from Jamie’s hair down beneath his ear. Patrick’s nails drag down his back, crossing the welts from the crop and sending fresh waves of white-hot pain through him. Jamie chokes on a cry, so it comes out more as a grunt than a yell, and for a moment he’s sure of what comes next—Patrick making him bleed, making him come, making him open and exposed right here in the middle of the club—

“Red,” another voice says, and the moment breaks like glass. Jamie curls in on himself. “Over the line, you guys. You know the rules for playing here.”

Jamie can’t answer; he can’t even move, he can’t even control his breath. Breaking open the place he was in _hurts_ , in a way he can’t understand or control when he’s this exposed.

“Of course.” Patrick’s voice is hoarse enough for Jamie to believe that he’s as far gone as he himself is. “Sorry.”

“Let him down and take him over to the aftercare area.” Jamie can’t see the other guy, but he sounds disapproving. It’s like broken glass poured over Jamie’s raw skin; he can’t stand anyone being unhappy with him right now. He whimpers, the sound choking off in his throat, and Patrick’s hand slides along his side again, a tiny bit of comfort and soothing in a space that’s suddenly too cold and too loud.

The dungeon master moves away and Patrick starts unbuckling Jamie’s restraints, speaking in a low soft voice as he does. “It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong. You did _so_ well, actually, you were perfect. You’re amazing. If we weren’t here, I wouldn’t stop, I would give you everything you can take. And you can take a lot, can’t you? So strong. So good. You breathing for me? C’mon, deep breath. There you go.”

He helps Jamie ease his weight off the cross and lets Jamie lean on him instead. “C’mon. Let’s go sit down.”

“D-don’t…” Forming words is hard. It hurts. Jamie closes his eyes. “Don’t w-want to.”

“No? What do you want?”

“You.” Jamie takes a deep gulp of air and buries his face against Patrick’s arm. It’s hard to think. Thoughts are heavy and he’s boneless, they don’t work together. His whole body is buzzing with pain and heat, all flowing back together where it got broken before. “Go home with you.”

Patrick stops moving, and Jamie’s weight settles on him more heavily, helpless and needing. “You do?” 

Jamie nods, rubbing his face mindlessly. Patrick’s shirt is soft, it feels good, and there’s sweat soaking through it—his own, Patrick’s, maybe both, he doesn’t know. He just wants to feel it more.

“Are you sure?” 

Patrick’s voice says that this is important, even though Jamie can’t remember why it would be. “Yeah. Take me home.”

“Okay.” Patrick strokes his side again, then gets them moving toward the tables. “I need you to sit down for a minute. I’m going to get you some water. You need to drink the whole glass before we can go. Understood?”

Jamie nods, grateful for the instructions. It’s good to have something he can use to keep himself together through the next few moments. He sits and waits, shifting back and forth to press on the welts, still mindless and drifting. When Patrick brings back the glass of water he drinks it one sip at a time, staring solemnly at it between swallows as if to memorize the amount of space left.

While he drinks, Patrick digs around in his play bag and comes up with a zip-up hooded sweatshirt. “It’s always handy to have one of these,” he says, giving Jamie a little smile. “Don’t want you to get cold, and we’re not gonna get your t-shirt over your back the way it is right now, eh?”

Jamie shakes his head slowly. He feels heavy and dull, like he’s made of rocks and mud, but that’s just his body. His mind is still somewhere far away.

“Okay. Hold your arms out for me… put the glass down first. There you go. All right.”

The sweatshirt still stings against his back, but it’s not so bad, and it _is_ nicer to be warm. Patrick zips up the front of it, and Jamie tucks his chin down, letting the hood fall forward and make a space where he can hide.

“Good boy,” Patrick croons, helping him to his feet. “Let’s go upstairs now. Easy, one step at a time. There you go. Door’s over here… there you go. I’m gonna wave down a cab for us, you lean against the wall here for me, okay? Don’t move.”

Jamie can do that, do what he’s told, be good. He closes his eyes and focuses on breathing, on how he can feel the air moving inside of him, feel his lungs fill and empty. He’s so glad Patrick isn’t making him talk. He isn’t sure he _could_ talk right now; that’s too many things to coordinate, thoughts and breath and vibrations in his throat, swallowing and blinking and—no, blinking isn’t part of talking, see, he’s already overwhelmed and he isn’t even actually _doing_ it, he would definitely mess it up if he tried to talk.

A hand settles on his arm, and he tenses, but then Patrick’s voice is in his ear again, so it’s okay. “All right, c’mon, we’ve got a cab. Gonna put you in the back seat, duck your head… okay, there.”

Jamie opens his eyes somewhere in the middle of Patrick’s gentle monologue, but he likes having Patrick guide his motions. It’s soothing to be told what to do, and easier than trying to think through the fog in his head. Patrick slides into the seat next to him, and Jamie leans heavily on his shoulder, breathing in the smell of his hair and the soft skin at the curve of his neck.

Patrick rests his hand on Jamie’s knee and squeezes gently. “Be good.”

Jamie wants to, desperately. He isn’t sure what being good means, right now, here in the cab, but he tries holding still and counting his breaths, not letting himself push closer against Patrick’s neck, and that seems to be right. Patrick keeps his hand where it is, and squeezes again every so often, but he doesn’t tell him to stop leaning or anything.

It’s a quiet ride in the dark. Jamie shuts his eyes against the glare of the streetlights and headlights, and loses track of time almost immediately, drifting in the warm foggy dark inside his head. He can feel it receding, though, as breaths and heartbeats pass by; he’s moving back up from the soft floaty place and more into his body, coming back out of the pleasant shock-y state of subspace and into reality. Reality is that his back is sore, and he’s tired, and he needs both some more water and to pee.

He whimpers a little, shifting to try to find a position that doesn’t press on his back and make the welts throb. Patrick squeezes a little harder. “Easy,” he murmurs, turning his head to speak softly against Jamie’s skin. “We’re almost there, I’ll take care of you when we get there. I promise.”

“Hurts,” Jamie whispers, hiding the word in the warm space below Patrick’s ear.

“I’ll take care of you.” Patrick lifts his hand, brushing Jamie’s hair back off his forehead, and while Jamie immediately misses the steady warmth on his knee, he wants to push into the touch on his face, rub into it, savor it. “No more playing tonight after all, I think. Just taking care of you.”

That’s—that’s what Jamie wants, it is, he wants to be comforted and taken care of. But he wanted to do more for Patrick, too. He wanted to please him. And maybe he’s _disappointing_ him now, by needing to stop, and nobody wants a disappointment around. Patrick will clean him up and then send him home and never want to see him again. Jamie’s been bad, not tough enough, weak and useless and a _boring_ sub, he’s—

“Hey.” Patrick’s hand moves again, now to the back of Jamie’s neck, and squeezes slow gentle pressure. “Hey. You’re getting upset. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Talking is so hard. He doesn’t want to do it, he maybe can’t do it, but Patrick gave him an instruction, he has to at least try to obey. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, closing his eyes tight against the hot prickling of tears. 

“Sorry that we won’t play more tonight?”

Patrick _gets_ him. Jamie nods and Patrick squeezes him a little more, safe reassuring pressure that doesn’t quite hurt.

“Taking care of you will be great,” he says. “I don’t want you to worry about that. You’re going to do whatever I say, aren’t you? You’re going to be a good boy? That’s what I want from you tonight.”

Jamie nods and concentrates on his breathing and the pressure of Patrick’s hand on his neck. It helps. It gives him something to center himself on the rest of the way to Patrick’s building. The ride up the elevator is harder—Patrick stops touching him, which is lonely and cold—but finally, finally they get to the apartment and Patrick’s hand lights on Jamie’s shoulder again. 

“Go get comfortable on the couch,” he says, giving a little nudge. “However you want, sitting or lying down. I’m going to get you some more water and some painkillers.”

Jamie definitely doesn’t want to sit up anymore. Leaning his back against the couch would hurt, and if he holds himself stiffly and carefully any longer, he’s going to cry in frustration. He’s tired. He wants to relax, and he wants Patrick to touch him, and he wants the pain to ease. He’s going to explode like a toddler at any moment.

Patrick comes back with water and ointment and ibuprofen. Jamie blinks at the pill bottle and Patrick laughs a little. “You thought I meant the good stuff, eh? Sorry. Let’s start with this, anyway. There you go. Swallow. Now let’s get this shirt off.”

Jamie wiggles out of the hoodie and settles on his stomach, closing his eyes and rubbing his face against the leather while Patrick rubs ointment into the welts on his back. It doesn’t kick in right away, of course, and neither does the ibuprofen, but he can drift for a few minutes, lifting his head enough to sip water when Patrick prompts him. Maybe he can fall asleep and not have to deal with any of this until morning.

Patrick’s fingers slide through Jamie’s hair, gentle little strokes that end at the nape of his neck in wandering touches. “You feel up to talking, or should that wait til tomorrow?” Jamie can’t even muster words in a response, just shrugs. Patrick laughs again. “Okay. Up. Stand up.”

Obeying is awful, but it would be worse to refuse to do what Patrick asks. Jamie gets to his feet, squeezing his eyes shut, then gasps in shock as Patrick’s hands go to the waistband of his jeans and slip the button free.

“Just getting these off you so you can go to bed.” Patrick turns his hand, palming Jamie’s stomach. “Sorry, I probably should’ve said something first. Relax for me?”

Jamie wants to tell him _you can touch me however you want, do whatever you want, I’m yours, I’ll take anything_ , but he still can’t talk, and anyway, Patrick really seems to want to talk first. He’s the kind of guy who wants rules and boundaries and stuff. Jamie thought he was that kind of guy before, but, well. Apparently not anymore. He knows that it’s better, it’s safer, it’s the smart thing to do. 

Right now he just wants to be thrown on the floor and roughed up, but when he’s back in control of himself, he’ll be thankful.

Probably.

When he doesn’t resist, Patrick resumes helping him out of his jeans, then folds them up and leaves them on the couch while Jamie stands there in his socks and boxers. It’s _not sexy_ , he is aware of that more sharply than anything else through his post-scene haze. But there’s nothing he can do about it.

“This way.” Patrick guides him down the hall, past the trophy room. “This is the guest room. There’s a bathroom through that door. The light has a touch panel on the base, here, and… and you don’t care.” He smiles and brushes Jamie’s hair back again. “You’re going to be out as soon as you hit the pillow.”

Jamie nods, letting go of a slow breath as Patrick helps him sit on the edge of the mattress. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. We’ll talk in the morning. You were great tonight.” Patrick kisses him on the forehead, lingering, promising. “We’ll figure it all out. Promise. Right now, just go to sleep.”

Jamie couldn’t refuse even if he wanted to. His eyes are already closing.

**

Jamie wakes up vaguely aware that he’s surrounded by soft, expensive bedding that definitely isn’t his own; that his back hurts; and that he really has to pee but doesn’t want to move. He remembers where he is and how he got there after a moment, and snuggles deeper down into the blankets, burying his face against the pillow. God. This is comfortable and wonderful, and getting up is going to hurt, and talking to Patrick is going to be embarrassing and terrible. Better if he never does either of those things, just stays here and tries to go back to sleep.

He hears the door open, then the soft click of something being set on the bedside table. Curiosity gets the better of him; he lifts his head and finds Patrick looking down at him with a smile on his face—a gentle smile with warm eyes that make Jamie’s stomach flip over and his brain go blank.

“Morning,” Patrick says.

“Uh.” Jamie sits up slowly, rubbing at his face and trying to suppress the shudders of pain as the skin on his back moves. “Yeah. G’morning.”

Patrick nods at the bedside table. “I brought water earlier, and this time I brought orange juice. More painkillers, too. Thought you might want them.”

“Yes.” It takes him another minute and a deep breath before he reaches for them. “Still not the good stuff, huh?”

“No. I’ve got more analgesic cream, though, if you want that too. Or maybe you’d like to shower first?”

“Shower… no.” He’s not going to want to shower today at all, and maybe not tomorrow, either. It would sting like fuck. “The cream would be good. Except I’ve gotta, um, visit the…”

Patrick nods at a door in the corner. “Right through there. Do you drink coffee? I can go make you some and meet you back here when it’s ready.”

Jamie downs the pills before he answers. “Do I have to drink everything else first?”

“Only if you want to.” The corners of Patrick’s eyes crinkle up when he smiles, and Jamie must not have full control back over his brain yet, because part of him wants to reach out and press his thumb against that soft skin. “Not into the orange juice-coffee flavor combination, huh?”

“Not my favorite, no.” 

“I’ll take care of it.” He picks up the orange juice and steps back toward the door. “How do you take your coffee?”

“Cream and sugar.” He doesn’t want Patrick to go; those raw and needy, still-exposed parts of his brain are wailing at him to ask Patrick to stay, to help him to the bathroom, to not leave him _alone_ again, he’s not ready yet. But it’s the next morning, and the window for being needy like that has passed. He just has to pull himself together and deal with it.

Pulling himself together enough to stand up and shuffle to the bathroom is a good first step. The bathroom is modern and minimalist, all black and chrome. Jamie pees, squints at himself in the mirror, washes his hands and face, then turns around and tries to look at the reflection of his back. 

It doesn’t look as bad as he expected; Patrick is good at this. Jamie studies it for a few minutes, until his neck starts to hurt, then shuffles back into the bedroom, where there’s coffee on the bedside table and Patrick sitting on the edge of the mattress. 

Patrick smiles at him, gesturing with his own mug for Jamie to drink and sit. “Feeling a little more awake now?”

“Not til I get through the coffee.” Jamie sits down arm’s length away from him, not wanting to look clingy but really needing to sit for a few more minutes. The tube of cream is lying on the bed next to Patrick’s thigh; putting it out of bounds for him to reach for or nod to or bring up, like, at all. He just has to wait.

Patrick’s still smiling at him, though, which helps. “So. Last night was pretty good, wasn’t it?”

“Yes!” Jamie almost spills his coffee. “It was great.”

“I feel like we’ve got, you know. Chemistry.” Patrick studies his face, eyebrows raised hopefully. “Do you think so too?”

Jamie nods quickly, clutching his mug with both hands to keep from slopping coffee around. “Yeah. I do. You just… you read me. It was amazing.”

“I did feel like I could read you. And like you were picking up on me, too, just… both of us, right there with each other.” Patrick shifts to face him more, resting one hand on the bed between them. “I haven’t had that kind of chemistry with anyone in a while.”

“Me either.” Jamie wants to touch Patrick’s hand, wants to cover it with his. He _can’t_ , though. He just has to wait. 

There’s a pause, like Patrick is waiting for him to say something. When he doesn’t, Patrick picks up in a voice that sounds like he’s prompting. “So do you want to do that again sometime?”

“Scene together?”

“Yeah.” Patrick smiles again, his eyes crinkling up, and Jamie takes a gulp of coffee to keep from reaching out. “You and me.”

“I mean… yeah, definitely, I’d like that. I’d like that a lot. I think there’s a play night in two weeks? We could meet up there again?”

Something slips in Patrick’s expression. “Oh. Oh, yeah, of course, we can do that.”

“It’s not what you meant?” Jamie clutches at his mug again, pressing his thumbs hard against the heat. “You meant something else.”

“Well, just, open play nights are all gonna have the same thing as last night. Where we have to stop before we get too caught up.” Patrick puts his coffee mug back on the table, freeing both of his hands to gesture at Jamie, catching his attention and making him want. “Not that I don’t like sceneing without sex. I’m totally into that if that’s what you want. I just feel like…” He laughs and ducks his head, but Jamie can see the color rising in it. Patrick is _blushing_. Because of _him_.

“What?” Jamie’s blushing too, now. It’s like they’re reading each other again, feeding off each other’s emotions. “Tell me.”

“I feel like we’ve got this great chemistry, and it could really take us somewhere. I could do stuff to you that… I mean, that _I’ve_ never tried, I don’t know about you, but I feel like we could get really deep together. Do you think so too?”

_No shit_ , Jamie thinks, biting his lip and trying to keep the blushing from getting worse. He would let Patrick take him anywhere. So deep they end up on the other side of the earth. He would let Patrick take him apart and put him back together sideways. He would let Patrick take him apart and not bother to put him back together at all.

“Yeah,” he finally manages to say. “I think so.”

“But we can’t do that if we’ve got somebody coming up and interrupting us, you know?” Patrick drags his hand through his hair. “I’m not trying to be some, like, creepy dommy asshole who’s like oh, I’ve gotta get you alone, I’ve gotta have no witnesses to do whatever. I’m a little afraid I sound like that.”

Jamie blinks at him a few times. “Uh. Well. I mean… a little? But I don’t mind. You know. I’m into that.”

Patrick’s quiet and rubs at his face for a really long moment. Maybe Jamie made a mistake, there.

“There’s the other thing, too,” Patrick says finally, dropping his hands back to his lap. “With your job and the professional boundaries and… all that. Right?”

“Oh.” Jamie had very deliberately pushed all of that to the back of his head in the excitement and rush of getting Patrick’s hands on him. But it couldn’t stay packed away if Patrick was going to bring it up. “Well. Yes. That… it’s a problem, yes.”

“What do you have to do?”

“I mean, technically?” Jamie shrugs helplessly. “I have to either stop treating you or not see you, like, romantically. I can’t do both.”

“It doesn’t have to be _romantic_ , does it? I mean, we don’t have to define it that way. It can just be… physical.”

Jamie desperately doesn’t want to argue with him, but… “Physical counts. I mean, sexual counts, so I assume scening would. Especially since part of the reason we want to do it here instead of at open play nights is so we can, you know, do that kind of stuff. The stuff that’s not allowed there. Stuff with, you know. Fluid.”

“I know, yes, you don’t have to…” Patrick catches himself and sighs, then rubs his face again. “Well, shit.”

“I could stop being your massage therapist.” That’s what he should do. It’s the ethical thing to do. But it’s a big hit to his income even if it doesn’t get him fired, which it almost definitely will. 

He’s made so many mistakes here, but he can’t bring himself to be sorry. What is _wrong_ with him? Why does he need this so much? Why does it have to be so good, why does _Patrick_ have to be so good? Him and his chemistry and his strong fucking backhand. It sucks.

Jamie doesn’t want to give this up. He knows that for sure. He’s tired of giving things up, tired of not having things, just… tired. And he wants. And doesn’t he deserve to have what he wants, just this once?

“Maybe,” he says haltingly. “Maybe, like. If we kept them really separate. Like, when I’m here to do massage, that’s all I’m here for, you know? We don’t do any other stuff. We talk like normal. You don’t tell me to do stuff, and you don’t touch me, and I just… I work on your body and then I go home. And when I come over for the other stuff… it’s just for that stuff.”

Patrick’s quiet for another long moment; Jamie can see him turning the idea back and forth in his mind. “We don’t even transition from one to the other in one visit. You come over for one thing, leave when it’s over, come back at a different time for the other thing.”

“Yeah. Keep it all separate.” Jamie swallows. “Do you think that would work? Do you think we can do that?”

“I can. Yes. Absolutely.” Patrick nods. “Whatever you need me to do for you to be comfortable.”

“Okay.” Jamie looks down at his hands. It still isn’t _right_ ; he can’t even do a letter of the law vs. the spirit of the law thing, it’s definitely against both of them. But he wants it. And for once he’s gonna have what he wants.

“Can I show you something?” Patrick asks after a few moments. “Or, do you want some more water, first? Coffee? Anything else?”

Jamie blinks slowly, all of the questions blurring into one shape in his mind. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, you can show me. And… water, I think. A little more water.”

Patrick winces. “I’m throwing a lot at you, huh?”

Jamie rubs the side of his face and shrugs. “It’s all important. It’s stuff we need to figure out. It is a lot, but if we didn’t talk about it I’d end up going home and worrying about it, so we might as well get it done now.”

“There’s no rush, though. We could talk about it any time. We’re not on a deadline.”

“I don’t want to wait anymore.” He surprises himself, admitting that. That’s the kind of thing he keeps to himself, curled up tight in his chest. Apparently part of him wants to start telling Patrick things, which could end up being really nice or really embarrassing, down the road.

It makes Patrick smile, though, and he’ll put up with a lot of embarrassment for that. “Okay. I’ll be right back with the water.”

Jamie’s content to wait, sitting there on the bed poking at the soft sheets and blanket. His back still hurts; they’ve been talking too much for Patrick to put the ointment on him. He’s leaning into the pain, though, wrapping it around him in his mind like a cape, a declaration of pride in how much he can take. The day-after pain isn’t as sharp and twisty as in the moment it’s happening, but it’s a reminder that he’s strong, and impressive, and he did well for his dom.

Patrick comes back in time to find him squirming, head down and eyes closed, his face twisted up in pain. “Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Jamie looks up quickly, blinking to clear his eyes and push the pain back into its space in the background. “Water, please?”

Patrick hands him a glass that’s half-full of ice and sweating moisture all down the surface. “I didn’t do your back, did I? Shit. I’m sorry. I’ll get that now. Finish the whole glass, you probably need it. Just sit still for me.”

They’re gentle, matter-of-fact orders, and on another day Jamie probably wouldn’t have taken them as orders at all, just suggestions. As it is, they’re a relief. He can focus on meeting each of them, sipping his water and keeping as still as he can while Patrick’s hands move over his back. The pressure hurts, and the cold and chemical touch of the ointment stings, but in a few seconds it warms and the analgesic kicks in, and Jamie’s shoulders sag with relief.

Patrick presses a kiss to the back of his neck. “Good boy. Did you finish?”

Jamie swirls the glass to make the ice clatter. “Yes, sir.”

That earns him another kiss and a lower note of heat in the next words. “Good boy. Come with me, I want to show you this.”

They walk back into the bathroom, and Patrick goes to the door at the opposite side of the room. “This was another guest room, when I moved in,” he said. “It’s connected like in a hotel suite, you know, the bathroom between the two rooms. But I had it made over.”

“An office?” Jamie guesses, and Patrick laughs, throwing the lock and pushing the door open.

“No, my office is down the other hall. This is the play room.”

Jamie doesn’t get it at first, until Patrick reaches around the doorframe and turns the light on. Then—oh. Oh, well. Yeah. It’s a play room.

The bag from the night before at the club is lying carelessly in the corner, the crop spilling out of it. Jamie can see where it’s supposed to go when it’s put away, though; there’s a whole rack of implements on one wall, neatly lined up and shown off. There’s no cross, but a set of padded leather handcuffs hangs from one wall, with rings near the floor where another set can go to restrain ankles. There’s a rectangular thing in the middle of the room, sized somewhere between a bench and a table, with wooden sides and a padded top. It has rings fastened to it here and there, too, not leaving much doubt what it’s for.

There’s a chest of drawers against the far wall, and Jamie could spend all day imagining what’s tucked away in there. Creative stuff, stuff that _hurts_ , stuff to make him beg and cry. He wants to go through the drawers immediately. He wants Patrick to tell him he’s absolutely not allowed to, and then make him kneel down and wait.

Patrick clears his throat softly, and Jamie looks at him, blinking in a daze. “What do you think?” Patrick asks. “It doesn’t freak you out too bad?”

“It’s amazing.” Jamie looks around again, putting his hands behind his back and hooking his fingers together to fight the urge to go touch things. “You just put this together for yourself?”

“It’s been a project.” Patrick leans against the doorframe. “I don’t get to use it that much.”

“No?” Jamie glances at him and smiles. “You don’t have a different guy here every night of the week?” 

“Ha. No. Not exactly.” Patrick laughs a little and goes over to the bag, taking the crop out and returning it to its place on the rack. “Sometimes life does not turn out to be as sexy and exciting as you think it will. Most of the time, I guess.”

“I hear you.” Jamie lets himself drift a little farther into the room, studying the bench table tiedown thing. “This is cool. I mean, interesting.”

“I had that made custom.” Patrick takes a few more things out of the bag and puts them away, then shuts the bag away in the closet in the far corner. “I was seeing someone at the time who really liked it. Now it’s just kind of taking up space.”

Jamie traces his finger carefully along the top padding. “It definitely should be used.”

“Are you volunteering?”

Jamie pulls his hand away and steps back a little. “Isn’t that what we’re talking about? I mean, you wanted to show me this. I thought that was an offer, not just, like… showing it off.”

“I mean, yes, it was.” Patrick’s blushing now, shoving his hands in his pockets. “But I didn’t know if me having all this and a room set up and everything would freak you out. Sometimes it freaks people out! It’s coming on too strong, or something. I wanted to put all my cards on the table up front, with you.”

“I like your cards. I like this room. I want…” Jamie gestures vaguely, encompassing them, the room, the apartment. “I want all of it. We can do the rules we talked about before. I’m agreeing. I’m into it. I’m down. Whatever you need to hear, okay? Yes. I want to do it.”

Patrick takes a deep breath and lets it go with a little laugh. “Okay. Wow.”

It’s Jamie’s turn to blush, his face feeling hot and uncomfortable enough that he wants to press his hands to it and hide behind them. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I needed to know that. It’s pretty important.” He takes a step toward Jamie, reaching out slowly enough that Jamie could dodge his touch if he wanted to. He doesn’t; he lets Patrick’s hand roam from his shoulder to his neck to his jaw, and then he leans into it, trying to memorize the feeling of the contact and soak it into his skin.

“So I’ll see you on our regular day for the appointment,” Patrick says. “And then… next Friday night, maybe? Come over off the clock?”

Jamie nods, his chest tightening with excitement and nerves. “Okay. Yeah. What time?”

Patrick grins. “It’s off the clock.” The backs of his fingers brush over Jamie’s mouth. “Any time is fine. I’ll be here.”

**

Jordie and Justin are in the kitchen when Jamie gets home, bickering over the coffee maker and hip-checking each other back and forth along the counter. Jamie tries to make it up the stairs without them noticing, but Juice gives him away, woofing happily and trotting over for ear scritches.

“Well well well,” Justin says, grinning across the living room at him. “Look who’s trying to sneak home without giving a report on his night.”

“Nothing to report,” Jamie says, squatting down to kiss Juice’s face. The motion is stiff and careful, something Justin will definitely notice and Jordie hopefully won’t. Justin’s grin widens when Jamie looks up again, so mission accomplished on that front; Jordie’s turned back to the coffee maker and added another mug to the lineup.

“You’ve definitely got stuff to report,” Justin says. “Like where you slept last night.”

“Went home with a friend.”

“You don’t have friends.” Jamie glares at him and Justin backtracks, but there’s not a lot of sincerity to it. “Okay, okay, no friends in the scene, who you can _crash_ with, anyway.”

“I went home with a guy,” Jamie admits, getting back to his feet. “But nothing happened.”

That makes Jordie turn around. They both look at him with their heads cocked to the sides, like Juice.

“You went home with him but nothing happened?” Justin asks. “You stayed there til… what time is it, Darth… like ten in the morning, but nothing happened?”

“Last night I crashed pretty hard. And this morning we were talking.”

Jordie’s eyes narrow. “Talking.”

“Yes.” 

“That’s a lot of talking.”

“We had a lot to say.” Jamie knows they’ve got him cornered and the only way to escape is to distract them. “The coffee’s ready. I’m gonna shower. Be back in a minute!”

The shower hurts as much as he expected, but it’s a few minutes to regroup and figure out just how much he’s going to tell the guys. He can’t tell them that he’s seeing Patrick, obviously. He can’t tell them he’s got a new kink partner he’s going to see solo, either; they’ll get all worked up and suspicious and worried that he’s going too far too fast. He’ll just stick with he’s seeing someone. Keeping it casual. And working a lot, he’ll use that too. That should cover it.

He doesn’t like lying to them, but it’s so much easier than worrying them and getting smothered in return. They both love him a lot, and he loves them too, but sometimes he just wants to do his thing and be trusted to not fuck it all up. 

There’s probably something wrong with trying to approximate trust by lying to them, but he doesn’t have the energy to untangle that right now. He’s just trying to get by day to day.

When he gets back downstairs, coffee is waiting for him and the guys have put hockey on the TV. He doesn’t have to try out any more lies today, thank god, just settle in at his end of the couch and swing his feet up onto the coffee table by Jordie’s. This kind of day is his favorite.

His back still hurts, but he feels warm inside, content. Right now it looks like maybe, at least for a little while, he can have all of the things he wants and loves, at once. He just has to keep it all balanced and not let anything fall apart. 

He thinks he can do that. He’s pretty sure. And even having it all for a little while will be the most amazing thing.

**

Having it all is _distracting_. 

He’s happy—he’s _really_ happy. He has to remember not to show it all the time. Has to stay subtle so nobody catches on. Fortunately he and Patrick have their agreement about scheduling, so he can’t just stay holed up at Patrick’s place like he wants to. He _has_ to go home, _has_ to go to his other appointments, _has_ to go about his life. If he didn’t, he’d be breaking the rules.

That helps with Patrick’s massage appointments, too: reminding himself that he has to stick to the rules. He’s not there to flirt or get Patrick worked up to punish him, he’s there to help with the sore and stiff places, to help Patrick be able to move better and without pain. And he takes his job seriously, he’s _good_ at it, so it’s not too hard to stay focused and be good. It’s hard to leave at the end of the appointments, but before he even reaches the lobby he’ll have a text telling him when to come back for fun, so…

Well. It works out pretty okay.

The first time he comes over to scene, Patrick says something about taking it slow, and Jamie’s heart drops into his shoes. But Patrick’s version of slow is Jamie stripping down to his boxers—good—and being restrained with the nice fancy leather cuffs—good—and the two of them sitting on the couch watching the Canucks game—okay—with Jamie getting _spanked every time there’s a penalty_.

By the end of the third period he’s squirming and gasping, his ass red and hot and his dick leaking through his boxers and leaving a wet streak across Patrick’s thighs. Patrick makes him kneel down in front of the couch and lick that wetness away, then walks him across the room and pins him against the wall from behind, whispering in his ear and reaching between his legs to jerk him off.

He’s weak-kneed and empty-headed after he comes, and pliable in Patrick’s hands, easily turned around and pushed down to his knees while Patrick gets his own trousers open. Patrick jerks off on Jamie’s face, fingers tangled tightly in Jamie’s hair, and it’s _perfect_ , the whole night is perfect.

They shower together after, in the bathroom between the guest room and the playroom. Patrick holds him against the shower wall with just his palm against Jamie’s chest and kisses him, slow and deep and teasing, while Jamie sags against the tile and lets his brain empty out all over again, so he’s just floating in the steam.

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” Patrick asks, and Jamie nods slowly, blinking at him through the water streaming down his face. It must look good because Patrick curses under his breath and kisses him again, hungrier and more frantic. 

He sleeps in Patrick’s bed, but they don’t have sex, that night or in the morning. Apparently the jerking off during the scene was the limit of going slow. Jamie’s okay with it, though, more than he would have thought. They have coffee together in the morning, and peanut butter toast, and Patrick kisses him goodbye at the door. He feels warm and floaty all the way home.

**

Patrick has a busy enough schedule that they can’t get together more than every other week, which is probably for the best. It means that Jamie doesn’t have layers of marks to worry about; the ones from a night together are pretty well faded by the time they have another. It keeps the excitement alive, the wanting or whatever. And it means that he doesn’t risk neglecting Jordie and Justin to the point where they might start to worry or pry.

He can show his marks off to Justin, actually, and Justin’s _proud_ of them, proud of him for finally going after what he wants. “They look good on you, dude,” he says when Jamie shows off after his second night with Patrick, which was spent in the playroom. Patrick cuffed his hands to the wall, fixed his ankles to a spreader bar, and proceeded to work him over for ages with his hands and mouth, leaving hickeys and pinch-bruises and bite marks. 

“It was awesome.” Jamie winds his t-shirt around his hand, trying not to preen too much while Justin looks him over. “He’s so great.”

“He’s a cannibal, he fuckin’ ate you alive.” Justin laughs and reaches out to trace one of the bite marks on Jamie’s shoulder. It’s deepening to purple-black ringed in blue, and Justin’s finger brushing over it makes Jamie’s stomach heat and twist.

“We just click, you know? Chemistry. I swear he knows what’s going to drive me crazy before I even know it.”

“That’s hot.” Justin stops touching and ruffles Jamie’s hair. “When do I get to meet him? I gotta take notes and learn how to do that for you.”

Jamie laughs. “You don’t have to do it for me anymore! He’s doing it!”

“Then I can learn to do it for someone else.” Justin rolls his eyes and sits down on the edge of his bed. “I’m glad you’re having fun. You deserve it.”

“I am having fun. It’s good. I can’t wait to see him again.” Jamie looks down at his t-shirt, slowly unwinding it and then wadding it between his palms. “But we still haven’t had sex. Is that weird?”

“Does it feel weird? Maybe it’s just not the right time yet. If you’ve got all this chemistry, it’ll happen when it’s meant to happen.”

“We’ve done two really hard scenes that turned us both on. The first one we both got off, but last night we didn’t.”

“Because it just didn’t happen or because of something else?”

Jamie wishes he hadn’t started this; telling Justin the details might make them fall apart in the light of day. It might ruin everything and leave him feeling stupid. On the other hand, Justin might be able to clear up if he’s doing something wrong to make Patrick not want him, or if Patrick’s just making him wait because it’s hotter that way.

“Well, uh.” He shakes his shirt out and pulls it on over his head to buy a few more seconds. “When he let me down off the wall I was pretty deep, and I got kinda shaky, so he helped me into the bathroom and ran a tub for me, like, you know, warm but not hot? And sat me in there and sponged me off and got me some Gatorade and stuff.”

“He took care of you,” Justin translates, giving Jamie a look that says pretty loudly that Jamie is dumb as hell. 

“Yeah. Aftercare and stuff, I guess. But it meant we both, you know, lost the mood or whatever.”

“Doing aftercare when you needed it instead of fucking you is a good thing, Jamie. Because if he’d fucked you, you would’ve ended up all shocky and fucked up.”

“I guess. But is that why he did it? Or did he just not want me?”

Justin exhales and shakes his head slowly. “I love you. You are very dumb.”

“Hey!”

“He wants you. Trust me. No, don’t argue with me. Look. After he took care of you, what did he do? Put you in a cab and send you home?”

“No!” Jamie wraps his arms around himself and shrugs. “He took me to bed with him. Made sure I was comfortable and stuff. And then we went to sleep.”

“Took you to bed _with_ him. Didn’t put you in a guest bed.” Jamie shrugs and Justin gestures at him, widening his eyes. “Dude!”

“That just means he’s a good dom, not that he wants me.”

“You’re _so_ dumb.” Justin sighs and flops back on the bed. “Well, whatever, figure it out for yourself, I guess. But don’t show Jordie those bite marks or he’ll shit a brick.”

“I know, I know.” Jamie shifts his weight from side to side, standing at the foot of the bed. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Can we hang out?”

Justin blinks at him. “We are hanging out.”

“No, I mean…” Jamie nods at the space next to Justin in the bed. “For a little bit?”

“Oh.” Justin laughs a little and tugs at the blanket, pushing it down to clear a space. “Yeah, come lie down, we can chill out for a little while. Cuddlemonster.”

“I don’t need to _cuddle_ ,” Jamie mutters, climbing in beside him. “I just like having somebody nearby. Ow. Fuck.”

“Like I said, your guy’s a cannibal.” Justin shifts around until the line of his leg is pressed against Jamie’s, nice and snug from knee to hip. “Good?”

Jamie nods and closes his eyes, listening to the soft taps as Justin pulls a playlist up on his phone. “Thanks, Courts.”

The phone thumps to the bed and Justin’s hand squeezes Jamie’s gently. “Any time, bud. Anything for you.”

**

Jamie knows he should talk to Patrick, in actual words, with verbs and nouns and everything. He should find out if Patrick even wants fucking to be part of this. He should clarify his feelings and check how Patrick feels and generally act like an emotionally functioning adult.

But he really, really doesn’t want to, because all of that shit is hard, and he knows it’s stupid but he just really wants to believe that Patrick can read his mind.

They have a good massage session, and another really good playdate (Patrick gets the riding crop out again, and the spreader bar, and some clamps for Jamie’s thighs, and—yeah, it’s just really good). Jamie catches himself wanting to text Patrick about stuff, normal stuff, day to day stuff. Just to say hi. He catches himself wanting to ask Patrick to meet him for coffee, or maybe even a movie.

They don’t do that. They’re _not_ doing that. But they never actually said they weren’t _ever_ going to do that. They just agreed about setting dates for the other stuff, the formal stuff. Jamie doesn’t know how the informal stuff fits in around that. 

He wants Patrick to read his mind and just tell him. But Patrick just keeps not doing that, like he’s some kind of actual normal human and not a fairy-tale master dom.

Jamie silently kicks himself a lot and goes to coffee and the movies by himself, and when the next scheduled day rolls around, he hauls his massage gear back up to Patrick’s apartment. 

Patrick’s wincing and moving stiffly, and Jamie hurries to get the table set up. “What did you do, eh?” he asks, trying to sound professional and mildly scolding instead of as worried as he feels. Worried and kind of _tender_ , like Patrick is actually his boyfriend instead of his patient, which is all Patrick is allowed to be today, and he has to _remember that_.

“Ah, I slipped going down some stairs.” Patrick makes a face and steps out of his sweatpants. “Caught myself, but I’d already managed to land funny and catch my weight wrong. You know how it is.”

“Yeah.” Jamie turns back to the table and fusses with the headrest so he won’t stare at Patrick standing there in his boxer-briefs. “Well. Accidents happen, I guess. As long as it wasn’t you doing something dumb.”

Patrick’s soft laugh makes heat bloom in Jamie’s stomach and a flush rise up into his face. “Do I have to answer to you if I do something dumb now?”

“No! I didn’t mean like…” He rests his hands on the table and makes himself take a deep breath. “Not like that.”

“I know.” Patrick’s hand brushes against Jamie’s arm, and oh god, he’s going to mess up all of their rules if he isn’t more careful. “It’s okay, Jamie.”

He isn’t using quite the same low, possessive voice he does when he has Jamie restrained and begging, but it’s awfully close, and just hearing his name on Patrick’s tongue at all makes him feel even hotter inside. Jamie clears his throat and steps to the side.

“All set.” He gestures at the table. “Climb on up, let’s see if we can work that stiffness out.”

Patrick smirks but doesn’t say anything, thank god. Once he’s facedown on the table it’s easier for Jamie to get control of himself and get to work, coaxing the tension out of unhappy muscles and convincing the tendons working with them to go home where they belonged.

He’s made a point of holding some time aside in each session for the glute stuff he made a note of in the beginning. Maybe Patrick noticed that and it’s deliberate, not an accident, that Jamie is kneading deeply at his ass when he says, “I realized I haven’t asked if you like me getting you off when we scene.”

Jamie chokes and freezes, both hands cupped over Patrick’s buttocks. “What?”

“Well, we’ve done it a couple of times now, and I’ve tried getting you off and not getting you off and I can’t really tell which way you like it better? Do you want that to be part of what we’re doing, or not? Is kink even sexual for you at all? I probably should’ve asked you sooner.” He takes a breath. “And my timing sucks, doesn’t it? We’re not supposed to talk about that stuff when you’re here for this.”

“This. Um.” Jamie stares at his hands, and Patrick beneath them. “It’s a little weird.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” Patrick laughs a little, but it doesn’t sound very happy. “Finish what you’re doing, I guess, and we can talk about it after.”

Jamie makes another careful stroke with his dominant hand, then slides them both away from Patrick. “I think we kind of broke the moment. And there’s only like two minutes left on the clock anyway.”

“Shit.” Patrick groans and sits up, tugging the top sheet along with him for modesty that doesn’t really go with the subject _he_ brought up. Though he also brought up the weirdness, and maybe modesty does go with that. Jamie’s mind is wandering in panic. 

“Do you want to talk about it now?” Patrick asks. “Or is that breaking the rule?”

The rule is _already broken_ , but Jamie has a feeling that if he says that, the whole topic is going to be fucked up forever. That’s the last thing he wants. (Well. No. The last thing he wants is to lose Patrick completely. Keeping Patrick as his dom, with sex off the table, would be a bummer, but a million times better than losing Patrick for real.)

“Why don’t you get dressed,” he finally says, wiping his hands off on the under-sheet. “I’ll clean up. And then we can go and get coffee or something, and talk about it there.”

“The letter of the law.” Patrick’s smile doesn’t really get more happy, but it’s less strained. “Good idea.”

**

Having coffee together isn’t quite the transformative thing it was in Jamie’s mind. It’s nice, but they’re not doing it just because they want to, or because they’re friends, or because they’re on an actual date; they’re doing it because they need a neutral place to have an awkward conversation. Not the best thing.

Patrick frowns into his coffee cup, then looks glances up at Jamie. “So. I guess we might as well jump right into it.”

Jamie nods and takes a drink, holding it on his tongue for a moment before he swallows. “Do you want to have sex?”

Patrick winces and then laughs sheepishly. “Shit, this is kind of cold, isn’t it? Like we’re doing a contract negotiation.”

“Some people are into that.” Jamie stretches his legs under the table, careful not to brush them against Patrick’s. This is serious stuff, not flirting.

Patrick’s brow furrows. “Are you? Should we have been more formal about all of this?”

“No! No, that’s not me. I like, you know. Natural. Easy stuff. Uh.” He’s fumbling around for a word that’s just out of reach. “Organic.”

That gets a real smile, until Patrick hides it behind his coffee cup. “Okay. Good. I like organic too.”

“Good. Um. But do you?”

“Do I want to have sex with you?” At Jamie’s nod, Patrick opens his free hand and spreads it on the table. “I really thought that was obvious, but I guess we were both missing signals.”

Jamie knows he’s going to end up looking slow, but… “An obvious yes or an obvious no?”

“I very much want to have sex with you.”

Thank fuck. Jamie slumps in his chair. “Oh. Good.”

“I want to do a _lot_ of things with you.” Patrick leans forward a little, his hand still splayed on the table, but his fingertips are drumming against it now. “Every day I think of more stuff I want to do to you. With you. I want to spend _days_ on you. Just making you come apart.”

Jamie’s hot all over, his skin prickling under his clothes. His dick is taking an interest, too, and he shifts his chair closer to the table so he’s decently hidden in that area. “I want all of it. Whatever you want to do. Anything. I can take it.”

“I want to test that.” Patrick’s eyes have gone all dreamy, and his smile twists at one corner in a way that hits Jamie right in the gut and the groin. That’s the smile Patrick gets when he’s hurting Jamie and they’re both getting off on it and it’s perfect. That’s the smile that makes Jamie want to fall apart at his feet. “I really want to know just how much you can take.”

“Anything you ask me to.” Jamie really believes it right now. _Anything_. “I’ll be good. I won’t disappoint you.”

“Nothing about you has disappointed me yet.” Patrick’s smile softens and he draws his hand back to himself, breaking the moment. “We can’t do all that yet, though.”

“Why not?” 

“It would be moving too fast.”

“Says who?” Jamie knows he has a contrary streak, one that drives him the hardest toward things that people say he can’t or shouldn’t do. Usually he can keep it in check, but right now he doesn’t want to. He just wants Patrick to stop holding back from him. “We can do whatever we want.”

Patrick takes a deep breath and lets it go slowly, with precise control. It shouldn’t turn Jamie on even more, but it’s the same careful control Patrick uses when they’re scening, and it’s hard-wired into Jamie’s dick by now. “No. We need to go slowly.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because I don’t want to fuck this up. I want it to be perfect.”

Jamie flings himself back in his chair. “Maybe going slow isn’t perfect for me!”

“Goddamn it, Jamie.” Patrick ducks his head, staring down into his coffee. “You are… you are something else.” Another controlled breath, and Jamie hasn’t wanted to shatter that control before—of course not, when they’re scening his whole reason for existing is to _be good_ —but right now, the idea of making Patrick snap is too sweet to entirely push away.

“Tell me what you want,” he urges. “Tell me what you would do if you weren’t worried about going _slow_.”

Patrick’s hand opens on the table again, but with tension in his fingers this time, so Jamie sees the lines of tendons and veins and bones. He imagines how that hand would feel pressed against him, holding him still, holding his throat.

“I would keep you for a weekend.” Patrick doesn’t look up, but Jamie doesn’t need to see his eyes anyway. He’s hypnotized just by his voice. “Keep you in the playroom and just… you would be mine, couldn’t go anywhere, couldn’t leave. Couldn’t walk away. And I’d just play with you. Anything I wanted. See how you reacted to one thing and then another, tease you with it. Let you get close to coming for me and then backing off and leaving you for a while. I’d make you beg and moan and lose control, and it wouldn’t end that same night. I’d stretch it out. Really… really make you mine.”

Jamie’s hard again, under the table, his thighs tense and his stomach tightening. “Yes.”

Patrick shakes his head. “No.”

“ _Yes_.”

“Not yet.” Patrick looks up again and meets Jamie’s eyes. “I’m not ready yet. I don’t think _we’re_ ready yet.”

“But we will be?” Jamie doesn’t want to leave here without knowing he can have this, he _will_ have this. Not yet means it’s down the road. He can be patient if he knows that what he wants is waiting.

Patrick nods, slowly at first and then more firmly. “Yeah. We will be. We’ll get there.”

Jamie drops one hand to press it against his dick, trying to will his body to calm down. “So next week we’ll fuck.”

“Jesus, you want me to write out a timeline?”

“It would help,” Jamie says honestly, and Patrick laughs, reaching across the table to brush his knuckles against the back of Jamie’s free hand. Jamie wraps the feeling around his heart with Patrick’s promise.

He _is_ going to have what he wants. They just have to get there.

**

At their next playdate, Patrick cuffs Jamie’s hands behind his back and makes him lie down on the floor, face-up, while Patrick straddles his hips. Patrick takes a pen and draws slow, careful patterns that Jamie can’t see or understand; lines up his arms from where they emerge from under his body up to his shoulders, lines across his chest, circling each nipple; lines down to his navel, to his hipbones, down his thighs to fade out halfway to the knee.

Jamie doesn’t get it, but he bites his lip and doesn’t let himself ask. He can be patient, that’s part of being good for Patrick. Trusting him to make it all clear when he decides it’s time.

Patrick sits back on Jamie’s thighs and studies his work, his eyes narrowed and thoughtful, then stands up and leaves the room. Jamie didn’t expect that.

It’s… alarming. A cold rush of panic goes through him at being left behind, left _alone_ , even though he’s not fully restrained and could get up without too much trouble. It’s not his body that’s the problem. 

He keeps breathing, making himself wait, be patient, be _good_ , until he smells the ghost-dark scent of a burning candle and opens his eyes.

Patrick’s carrying the candle carefully, his hand cupped around the light. It’s a plain white one, short and thick, in a shallow glass holder, and for a minute Jamie has no idea what it’s for. 

Then his brain catches up and oh, oh shit. He groans, his hips jerking up, and Patrick laughs, moving to stand over him. “I’m going to sit on you again,” he warns. “Don’t move while I’m getting settled. I don’t think you want me to spill this on your crotch.” Jamie blinks at him and he laughs again. “Not all at once. Jesus. You never get enough, do you?”

“No,” Jamie whispers, watching the candlelight flicker as Patrick lowers himself down to straddle him again.

“You always want more from me? You can always take it?” Patrick’s voice is thick and husky and hot, and it makes Jamie’s blood race in his veins. He really doesn’t ever get enough. He would let Patrick take him apart.

Patrick doesn’t seem fussed by not getting an answer. He swirls the candle holder in slow circles, studying it with critical eyes, then lifts the candle out and holds it over Jamie’s right arm. Jamie braces himself, every muscle tensing in anticipation and fear of what comes next, and Patrick smoothly tilts the candle and traces the ink line with hot wax.

It’s bearable on his forearm, but where the line turns into the curve of his elbow joint he cracks and shouts roughly, arching up off the floor. Patrick rides the movement, settling his free hand on Jamie’s sternum to settle himself, and follows the line the rest of the way up to Jamie’s shoulder across the tender skin of his inner arm. It hurts like hell, like fire going off behind his eyes, and he shudders all over, biting down on his lip to keep from crying out again.

Patrick settles back again, righting the candle and setting it back in its holder to build up more liquid wax. “Good boy. Fuck, you took that good.”

Jamie takes frantic, gulping breaths, trying to steady himself. “‘m ready. Do more.”

“You’re not quite ready yet. But neither is the candle, so it’s okay. Just breathe for me. Good boy.” He keeps up a low, steady stream of words, and Jamie stops trying to sort them out, just closes his eyes again and focuses on breathing and letting the hot lines of pain settle deeper into his body and fade around the edges.

He feels Patrick shift his weight again and tries to brace himself, but his body isn’t entirely listening to him anymore. Patrick does the other arm, hot wax moving up from forearm to tender skin in the same arc, and Jamie wails, squirming under him, unable to stop.

“Good boy, good boy,” Patrick says soothingly, and the wax reaches the end of the line and stops. “God, you’re trying so hard. It’s so fucking hot, Jamie. You’re amazing, I’ve never seen anyone like you.”

Jamie keeps his eyes closed and tries to just soak up the words. His dom is praising him, and that’s good, it’s _so_ good, it’s why he can take as much of the pain as Patrick wants to give him. He’s a good boy, he tries hard, and it makes Patrick proud of him.

The wax across his chest is a shock, brightness behind his eyes as he arches up off the floor. He feels Patrick’s hand slap down to steady himself—Jamie almost threw him off, god, that would be bad, bad, gotta hold still—but the wax doesn’t stop, just splatters unpredictably across his pecs and belly. 

“Shit,” Patrick breathes. “Sorry, sorry about that, but god, you should see yourself. You look so good, baby.”

Jamie sobs through clenched teeth, struggling against the cuffs just for the reassurance that they’re not going to give. 

Patrick curses under his breath, and then Jamie feels something soft touch his face, wiping away the tears and spit. “Good boy. My good, good boy. Jamie? Can you look at me for a minute?”

Jamie blinks and looks up, his breath hitching in his chest. He manages a small nod, blinking again as Patrick dabs at the corners of his eyes with—it must be Patrick’s own t-shirt, because he’s suddenly bare-chested there, straddling Jamie’s hips.

“We talked about it but we didn’t decide.” Patrick brushes the t-shirt along Jamie’s jaw and then sets it aside, looking at him seriously. “Do you want me to suck your cock? Because I want to right now. God. Watching you take it makes me so fucking hot.”

Jamie nods again, slow at first and then faster, because he wants Patrick to know he means it—he wants it— _god_ , he wants it. Yes, please, suck his fucking cock, take him apart, _give_ this to him.

Patrick smiles slowly and leans down to kiss his forehead, then shifts back, moving down to pull Jamie’s boxer-briefs out of the way and free his dick to the cool air. Jamie gulps for breath again, staring up at the ceiling, so overloaded with the mix of pain and anticipation and pleasure that he can’t do anything but try to breathe.

Patrick’s lips brush against his still-soft dick, careful and gentle. “Fuck, you’re big,” he says, and even though that isn’t something Jamie has any control of, he still blushes and tries to squirm. Patrick likes it, Patrick’s happy with him; that’s what’s important here.

Patrick coaxes him hard and steadies him with one hand while he takes him in. No teasing, no toying with him, just straight to a deep, tight suction that makes Jamie cry out and thrash again, helpless for him. He’s begging, and he probably sounds stupid because he can’t imagine anything he’s saying makes any sense, but it doesn’t matter right now. Patrick keeps sliding up and down his length, easing back and then taking him deep again, flicking his tongue against the delicate skin of the underside and then the head, and Jamie’s body has had so much, it’s gone as far as it can, he can’t hold back from coming.

He feels Patrick pull off him and move away, cool air suddenly hitting _all_ of Jamie’s body, and he whimpers a little in confusion until Patrick moves into his field of vision and kneels down by his head. He cups his hand around Jamie’s jaw, studying his face carefully. “Still with me, baby?” 

Jamie nods, choking a little as he tries to swallow, which earns a frown. “Okay, let’s let you sit up, eh? I’ve got you. Up.”

He gets Jamie into a sitting position and then grabs the padded bench and slides it over so Jamie can lean against it. “You did so good. Perfect.”

Jamie makes a vague noise and jerks his head toward Patrick, fumbling through his mind for the right words. _Don’t you want to come, too?_ , that’s the question in his head, but the words, the ability to move tongue and jaw and air to make them, they’re too far away. 

“Can I jerk off on you like this? On your chest?” Patrick touches his skin, the pale skin between the welts of wax. “I want to see you like that.”

Jamie nods again and slumps back against the bench, silently thanking whatever higher power looked out for kinky shit that Patrick _got_ him so well, that they’re on the same wavelength like this. 

Patrick does just what he said, standing in front of him and jerking off across his chest and stomach. Jamie thinks next time they talk about it, he needs to tell Patrick it’s okay to come on his face. He wouldn’t mind that. He would love it, in fact, who is he kidding? He loves everything Patrick does to him.

When they’ve both caught their breath a little, and Jamie’s starting to shiver as his pulse slows and the sweat cools on his skin—and okay, as the whole thing catches up with him and his adrenaline crashes and he slips into the dizzy half-shock of coming down—Patrick helps him into the bathroom that connects the playroom to the guest room where he stayed that first night.

“It’s the perfect setup,” Patrick says as he eases Jamie to sit on the toilet lid and goes to start the shower. “Clean you up in here, put you to bed in the guest room, nice and easy.” At Jamie’s wounded sound, he leaves the water running and comes back to kiss his forehead again. “You’re not going to want to sleep with someone else tonight. If I brushed up against the wax marks you would wake up screaming. Don’t worry. I won’t leave you alone until you’re all the way out, and I’ll be here in the morning.”

Jamie still doesn’t like it, but he can’t argue. He can’t do anything, just sway forward and rest against Patrick’s chest, breathing in the scent of his skin and sweat. Patrick doesn’t make him move, just holds him, while the water runs and the overhead light hums and Jamie drifts in all the beautiful space inside him.

**

Jamie’s stretched on his bed at home, watching a movie on his laptop, when Jordie knocks on the door. “Hey, bud? Can I come in?”

“Course.” Jamie hits pause and turns onto his side, resting his head on his forearm. “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to say hi.” Jordie sits down on the edge of the bed, frowning at the floor. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I live here, dude.”

“Yeah, but you haven’t been home.” Jordie glances at him and raises an eyebrow. “Right?”

Shit. “I’ve been home plenty.”

“And when you are, you lock yourself up here and don’t talk to either of us.” Jordie shrugs. “Just wondered what’s been going on with you.”

Jamie sits up, folding his legs under himself and trying to put his thoughts together fast enough that Jordie won’t get more suspicious. “Nothing’s going on, really. I’ve just been, you know. Working a lot. I didn’t realize I’ve been locking myself up here. You want me to come downstairs now? We can watch a movie or something.”

Jordie half-smiles. “You know I didn’t forget you said you were seeing somebody, dude.”

_Shit_. “Oh. Well. Yeah, I guess.”

“Still seeing them? Him?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s still pretty casual, you know. Not a big thing. Just… we see each other like once a week, I guess.” That isn’t a lie. They do. 

“You like him? I mean, obviously you like him. But you _like_ him like him?”

“Jordie, c’mon, we’re not in grade five.” Jamie needs something to do with his hands. The only thing within reach is the edge of the blanket, but fussing with that would be a dead giveaway to Jordie.

“You’ve never done a casual thing before, is all. I just wondered if it’s getting serious.”

“Like I said, it’s not a big thing. Once a week. It’s whatever.”

Jordie shifts around to face him properly. “So when are me and Justin gonna meet him?”

“What did I just say! It’s not a _come meet my brother_ kind of thing!”

“It doesn’t have to be him coming here for dinner! We could meet up at a bar. Have a couple drinks together. Or coffee.”

Jamie drags one hand through his hair, the other going for the edge of the blanket despite his best intentions. “Why do you _care_ so much?”

“Are you _seriously_ asking me why I care?” Now Jordie looks pissed for real. Jamie has not handled this well. “You’re my brother, that’s all! No big deal, eh? Just my little brother!”

“I can choose my dates for myself, Jordie.”

Jordie takes a deep breath. “I’m not going to apologize for worrying about you or caring about you or whatever.”

“I know. I didn’t say you had to apologize for anything.”

“You never hid stuff from me before. That’s all. It freaks me out because you never did it before, and it makes me wonder what’s going on.”

Jamie shakes his head. “I hide stuff from you all the time.”

“What?”

“My whole, like… thing. My sex life. The stuff I like. It freaks you out, and you think it’s gross, so I fucking hide it from you. You think I like it when you look at me like I’m some kind of a freak? No. I don’t… I don’t fucking like it. So I don’t tell you stuff.”

“I don’t think you’re a freak!”

“Yeah, you do, and if you want me to believe you don’t, you’ve gotta learn how to be a way better actor.”

“It scares me. That doesn’t mean I think you’re a freak.”

“Why does it scare you? Do you think I’m too stupid to take care of myself?”

“Of course not! I don’t understand it, and you’re my _little brother_ , and people are _hurting you_. How can I be okay with that?”

“That is why I hide it from you! That, exactly! That!” Jamie grabs a pillow and throws it across the room. “Does it freak you out that Justin does it?”

“A little! Not as much!”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s not _my brother_! And he’s… he’s on the giving end, not the receiving, nobody’s _hurting_ him!”

“You’re so dumb! You don’t get this at all!”

Jordie throws his hands in the air and gets off the bed. “Fine. Whatever. Sorry I give a shit about you. Sorry. I won’t bring it up again. Do whatever the fuck you want. Hook up with a goddamn serial killer if that’s what you want to do.”

“He’s not a serial killer! Jesus! Stop _judging_ me!”

Jordie storms out, and Jamie can hear him stomping down the stairs. There’s a mumbled conversation, then the door slams.

Jamie sighs and flops back against the pillows. Great. Justin will be coming up the stairs any minute now, then.

At least he brings beer when he does. Jamie accepts the bottle and scowls at it while Justin sits down. “Don’t even say anything.”

Justin shrugs. “You know what I’m gonna say.”

“Yeah, and I don’t want to hear it.”

“Okay. Drink your beer.” Justin takes his own drink, swallowing and then popping his mouth off the bottle with an exaggerated sound. Usually that cracks Jamie up, but right now he can’t even manage a smile.

They sit and drink in silence for a few minutes, until Jamie catches himself taking a deeper breath and his shoulders relax. Justin nudges him with his elbow. “Better?”

“Yeah.” Jamie nudges him back. “I guess.”

“He just loves you.”

“I know. But he needs to back off.”

“He doesn’t know how.”

“He could learn.”

“He could. That’s true. And it seems really likely after twenty-whatever years of being brothers.” Justin shifts around to lean against the headboard. “He knows he messed up. When he gets back I bet he’ll apologize. You gonna be cool?”

Jamie takes another drink. “Dunno yet.”

“Fair.” Justin glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “So this guy, he’s _that_ good, huh? Good enough that you’ll fight with Jordie.”

Jamie feels heat rising in his face. “He’s pretty great, yeah.”

“And you haven’t given me _any_ details. That’s rude, Jameson. That’s really rude.”

“It’s not your business!” He takes another gulp of beer, trying to fight back the smile that wants to break out on his face. “You don’t need to know everything!”

“But I _want_ to! C’mon. Just give me something. One little thing.”

“Uh.” Jamie thinks for a minute, then tugs the neck of his shirt down enough to show a bit of the still-healing line across his chest. “We did hot wax.”

“Nice!” Justin leans in to study it, then traces it carefully with his finger. “Everywhere? All the way down to your balls?”

“No! Not that far.” Jamie blushes more and takes a drink. “But it was so good. And he blew me after, and then he jerked off on me, so we finally kinda had sex.”

Justin nods wisely. “A blowie is totally sex. You’ve consummated. Good job.”

“It’s really great. Everything we do is _so_ great.” Jamie stares at his beer bottle. “It’s not that I don’t want you guys to meet him. I’m not embarrassed or whatever.”

“I promise we would behave.” Justin nudges him again. “No embarrassing stories. No dumb jokes. We would be cool.”

“I know you would.”

“I could probably even stop Jordie from making weird creepy threats about if this guy ever hurts his baby brother blah blah.”

Jamie laughs a little. “I know. Just. It would… it would hurt if I saw Jordie being grossed out by this. Like. This time it would _really_ hurt.”

Justin exhales slowly and thumps his head back against the bed. “Yeah. I get that.”

“And not just that. I just… I like this being _mine_. My thing that I don’t have to share. I guess that’s why I’ve been hiding up here when I’m home. Just thinking about it.”

Justin nods. “And jerking off.”

“No!”

“Really? No?”

Jamie finishes his beer and drops the bottle on Justin’s lap. “Not as much as you’re _implying_.” 

“Ha! I knew it.”

“Shut up.” Jamie rests his head on Justin’s shoulder. “I’ll do better.”

“Just make sure Jordie feels loved. Give him some attention. He misses you.”

“I know. I will.”

“And I’ll remind him not to be a dick about stuff. He sort of listens to me. Sometimes.”

“Thanks.” Jamie leans more heavily. “We should go downstairs and order pizza and have beer and a movie waiting for him when he gets back, eh?”

“We definitely should. C’mon, bud.” Justin takes his hand and squeezes it. “It’s all gonna work out okay.”

**

For a month or so, it really does.

Jamie makes up a schedule that has two nights a week for roommate time, no matter what. Just a little change but it gets Jordie smiling more, and that’s worth it. He pencils in one coffee run for the house per week, too, on the way home from a morning appointment, and all the guilt of neglecting his brother and Justin is fully balanced out.

His Patrick-massage day and Patrick-scening night are both already scheduled, so he tries adding in a few other things he needs to make a point of doing regularly: trips to the gym, beer runs, his turn to go to the grocery store, haircuts. Being scheduled to death scratches some of the same itch as doing what Patrick tells him. It’s being good, but it’s _accountable_ being good, performing it, kind of. He gets to check this stuff off on his calendar just like he gets to look up at Patrick and see approval in his eyes.

It’s good. Patrick’s hip is being taken care of. Jamie’s getting the crap beaten out of him regularly enough to keep his restless impulses at bay. The household is happy again. Everything is _balanced_.

As usual, when things get knocked askew, it’s because of something from the outside. In this case it’s Justin’s cousins coming back to Victoria for a visit. There’s gonna be a big family cookout, a golf day, taking the boat out, good times. Of course the Benns are invited; they’re practically family, and always have been.

“We’ll go back for a long weekend,” Jordie says, swinging his feet into Jamie’s lap on the couch. “Take the ferry Thursday evening, stay til Sunday afternoon.”

“That sounds great.” Jamie shoves halfheartedly at Jordie’s feet. “Is your mom gonna make all the good desserts, Justin?”

“She always does. We’re all gonna go into sugar shock.” Justin grins at them from the table, where for once he doesn’t have his laptop open. It’s a rare light week for him and he’s in a great mood; if it was any other semester, Jamie would be making plans to go to an open play night with him and take advantage of it. This time, though, he hasn’t mentioned it and Justin hasn’t asked. Patrick and Jamie never agreed to be exclusive, but it seems weird to ask if he can scene with somebody else, and on some level Jamie doesn’t _want_ to—more because Patrick might say yes than that he might say no.

Fuck, Jamie’s so into him. It’s embarrassing. It’s stupid. It’s true.

“I’m in,” he says, and leans down to bite Jordie’s leg above the knee. He’ll have to reschedule a massage session with Patrick, but that’s no big deal. They’ve moved a few before, when Patrick’s had meetings or gone out of town. They’ve never missed a scening night, though, they _both_ prioritize those, which makes Jamie feel all… dumb and warm inside.

Stupid. Embarrassing. Awesome.

“Do you think Mom will still do our laundry if we bring it home with us?” he asks, and Jordie’s face lights up for him.

**

Patrick takes a hammer to the whole thing, and doesn’t even know he does it, which at least lets Jamie pretend he has a reason for not telling him no.

“Sure, we can reschedule next time,” he says when Jamie asks, giving him a curious look from where he’s pulling his t-shirt over his head after his session. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah, fine.” Jamie flashes him a quick smile and folds up his table. “My brother and our roommate were talking about going back to Victoria for a long weekend, and—” Patrick’s face lights up the same way Jordie’s did, and Jamie chokes on his words. 

“So you’ll have a weekend to yourself?” Patrick asks. 

“Uh. Well, no, I was gonna go with them…” Patrick’s face falls and Jamie trails off, his stomach twisting with the urge to undo that. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I was just… Never mind. It’s not important.” He steps past Jamie into the hallway. “I’m going to get some water, you want some?”

“Yeah, please.” Jamie stares at his back for a moment, then follows. “Seriously, though, why did you ask?”

Patrick takes his pitcher from the fridge, along with a lemon. Jamie never noticed that before, that he keeps lemons in the fridge. Why is that cute? Why is he seeing things about Patrick as _cute_ , now? They should be impressive and powerful and bring him to his knees, not _cute_. Shit.

“It’s really nothing,” Patrick says, filling two glasses and reaching for a knife. “I misunderstood, that’s all.”

Jamie’s stomach hurts a little. He’s gonna have to do the work for himself, which on the one hand is _earning it_ but on the other is his person withholding something from him. And not looking at him. It’s a massage day, he’s not supposed to be in this headspace, but it’s happening anyway.

At some point he’s going to have to sit down and sort through all of this, the _thinking Patrick’s cute_ stuff and the _having sub feelings when he isn’t supposed to_ stuff and the fact that he will totally, definitely go back on his promise to Jordie and Justin if he can figure out what Patrick was going to say. Stuff. All of that stuff.

But it isn’t going to be now.

_So you’ll have a weekend to yourself?_

And then, from where it’s tucked away deeper in his memory. _I would keep you for a weekend_

“Oh,” Jamie breathes out, so it’s barely a word at all, barely a sound. Patrick’s shoulders hunch anyway, and the knife slides through the lemon into the cutting board with a sharp _plock_. “You want to… a weekend. With me. The whole time?”

“That way you wouldn’t have to explain to them why you were gone. That’s all I was thinking.” Patrick makes another slice. _Plock_. “But obviously I’m not going to ask you not to see your family. That’s ridiculous.”

“You don’t have to ask me.”

“Jamie.” Patrick sets the knife down and leans on the counter for a moment. “I don’t want to manipulate you.”

“You’re not!”

“You should see your family.”

Jamie wants to throw something. “I would _rather_ stay with you.”

Patrick looks over his shoulder. “You’re sure?”

Jamie nods. “I _really_ want to do this. Like… a lot.”

Patrick closes his eyes and leans forward on his hands again. “Can I kiss you, even though it’s a massage day?”

“We already kinda broke the rules. Might as well go for it.”

It’s a really good kiss. Patrick’s hands cradle his face, holding him just tightly enough that Jamie feels grounded and safe, suspended in the moment. His heart is beating fast, both from the kiss and the anticipation of their weekend, of getting to go all the way to the limit of Patrick’s creativity, of really finding out how much he can take.

He _wants_ it. So bad.

**

He goes home fully intending to tell Justin and Jordie that he’s sorry but he has to back out on the trip. He made up a reason on his way back: an appointment that he client can’t reschedule, with a big bonus for his trouble. Too good to refuse. Sorry, maybe next time. 

But when he comes into the house, Jordie grins at him from the couch and looks so damn happy just to see him that he can’t do it. Justin grabs him a beer and ruffles his hair and they tell him to sit his butt down and join them in watching a movie and it’s just—

It’s the way he wants things to always be, at home. It makes him feel warm and glowy and nice, even with the little twist of guilt in his stomach. It’s nice enough that he can shove the guilt out of the way and ignore it for a little while. 

Chances to tell them keep coming and going. Every time, he pictures Jordie’s face falling with disappointment, and the chilly distance that will follow, and the way it feels in his chest when he knows he’s let Jordie down, _disappointed_ him. Jamie’s hated that ever since they were little kids. He hated it when he realized he was doing it by focusing too much on Patrick. He just can’t fucking do it again so soon.

Justin might understand, and he definitely won’t be so disappointed; probably a few stern looks and a lot of sighing, but Jamie could handle that. Justin would let him make it up to him, too. Jordie won’t, he’ll just stew in it. 

It’s too much, and when something is too much, Jamie tends to shut down and ignore it for as long as possible. Sometimes that makes the things go away. Sometimes miracles happen.

He doesn’t scene with Patrick the next week on their regular night; they agree it’s good to build up more anticipation for their weekend, and anyway it gives Patrick extra time to plan stuff for that. _Special_ stuff, stuff he hints at in sexy texts that make Jamie blush and choke a little when he reads them. He’s pretty sure Patrick has known for ages exactly what he wants to do; this really is only to make Jamie squirm more, and it’s working. He’s crawling out of his skin.

Skipping their night together still sucks, though. He stays up with Justin and Jordie for a while, playing video games, but when he gets too restless and distracted he fakes a headache and retreats upstairs. He has a couple of quiet, unsatisfying orgasms, then lies awake for hours feeling shitty about everything. 

He knows he’s going to need a lie for Friday morning when they’re supposed to leave. Faking sick is the only thing that comes to mind, and if he does that, he’s gotta be a lot better at it than when he and Jordie were kids trying to get out of going to school in the weeks after hockey season when they had officially stopped giving a shit. 

It’s tricky, because Jordie was the one who taught him every fake-sick tactic he knew. Jamie isn’t good at coming up with that kind of stuff on his own.

The weekend is going to make up for it, though. It’s going to make everything worth it. He cancelled his clients for Friday and the rest of the weekend. Nothing til _Tuesday_ , actually; he even built in a recovery day. He’s planned everything except how exactly he’s going to hurt the people he loves the most so he can get to the thing he craves the most, the most selfish thing he can think of.

He wants it to be Friday already, Friday afternoon even. He wants to be half-buzzed and taking a cab to Patrick’s, while Justin and Jordie are already on the ferry and all the disappointment is over and things are out of Jamie’s hands. He wants the apartment door to swing open and Patrick to look at him, and he wants to sink down to his knees in perfect surrender.

He can’t wait for that, for the moment when he doesn’t have to worry about any of this anymore. Patrick will take care of all of it for him.

** 

In the end, guilt basically makes him sick anyway. He gets home Thursday night, mumbles something about having dinner at a food truck and not feeling so great, and flees upstairs. He goes back and forth from his bedroom to the bathroom a bunch of times, runs the sink a lot, and texts them both around four AM that he isn’t gonna be able to make the trip home with them. They shouldn’t wake him up when they leave, and no, neither of them should stay behind. Go, have fun, he’ll be okay, he just needs to sleep and hydrate.

He doesn’t have any replies when he wakes up, but there’s a big bottle of Gatorade on his bedside table, and a note telling him to feel better and that they’ll bring him back some homemade desserts.

They’re so nice, and he’s a shit for lying, but he’ll make it up to them. He takes a long gulp of Gatorade and silently swears that he will.

Then he goes downstairs to make himself some breakfast. He’s gotta take good care of himself today; gotta be ready for anything when he gets to Patrick’s place. 

He eats, he showers and shaves, he goes out and gets a haircut, even, then takes a walk around the park so he’ll be calm and exercised instead of a jittery mess. Of course then when he gets home he has to shower again because he got sweaty, but—

Yeah, none of that is making him less of a jittery mess. Shit. He pours a drink instead. Only the one—Patrick can’t do heavy stuff with him if he’s drunk, that’s a rule they stick to—but enough to take the edge off and let him sit still for a few minutes. 

When he finishes and checks the clock, it’s only 2:30 in the afternoon. He’s not supposed to be at Patrick’s until eight. He’s so, so deeply screwed.

He goes to a movie. Then dinner. Then he walks slow loops around the blocks leading to Patrick’s neighborhood, working his way toward the building a little bit at a time, stopping a lot to look up at the sky or the trees or down at the particular mix of sludge in the gutters here. 

It’s 7:15. He sits down on the edge of a planter across the street from Patrick’s building and looks up toward the top floor, lit up against the dull evening sky, and searches out Patrick’s windows until his phone buzzes in his pocket.

_Come over whenever,_ the text says. _I’m ready a little early. Can’t wait to see you._

Jamie stares at it for a long moment, running his thumb back and forth over the screen, before he answers, _I’m down here already, actually. I couldn’t wait either._

The reply is quick. _That’s awesome. Come upstairs._

Jamie presses his thumb over the first part and looks at it for another moment. _Come upstairs_. It’s like he’s Cinderella or something, stepping out of his life and into one that’s different. Leaving home and going to the ball. 

He tucks his phone in his pocket and walks across the street. The doorman sees him and presses the button to make the heavy glass doors open as he approaches, and then the other one that calls the elevator so it shows up just as Jamie reaches it.

It really is all like magic. Like none of this is real.

He takes a deep breath and presses the button for the penthouse, watching the view of the lobby narrow and disappear between the doors, and the real world is gone.

**

Patrick meets him at the door breathless and eager and ready to touch—his hands are all over Jamie as soon as he clears the doorframe, tugging his jacket off his shoulders, tucking a stray bit of hair back, brushing against his jaw. 

“Glad you were here already,” Patrick says with a laugh, stepping back and shoving his hands into his pockets, like they might run off out of his control otherwise. “I kept telling myself not to text you yet, that you probably had other stuff going on, this wasn’t eating up your brain like it was doing to me.”

“It totally was.” Jamie doesn’t want Patrick’s hands to stay under control. He wants them on him again, peeling away more layers of clothing, getting him naked and pushing him down on his knees. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

“Yeah?” Patrick’s face reddens as Jamie takes a step closer, but his hands don’t move. “Good things, I hope.”

“Come on.” Jamie laughs, more of a gasp than a sound. “I’m ready. Let’s do this.”

“You don’t want to talk first?”

The idea of talking makes Jamie want to scream. “I trust you. And I’m _ready_.”

Patrick studies his face for a moment, then breathes out slowly. “Fuck.” He takes his hands from his pockets again and cups Jamie’s face with them, stroking his thumbs in slow arcs along Jamie’s cheekbones. “You are… I’m not totally sure I didn’t dream you up, or something. How do you want what I want, all the time?”

“Dunno.” Jamie leans into the touch, wanting Patrick to hold up his whole weight in the cradle of his hands, or maybe take them away and let him crash to the floor. He wants Patrick to choose. He’s been waiting for two goddamn weeks and he wants to surrender, right now, right here. “Just lucky?”

“I’m the lucky one. No question.” Patrick kisses him, slow and deep, pushing into his mouth and claiming it. Not that Jamie’s putting up a fight; he never wants to put up a fight again. Patrick can have him, anything he wants. 

“You’re fed?” Patrick asks, his hands wandering down Jamie’s body to his ass, where he gives a good solid squeeze. “Hydrated?”

Jamie nods, swaying forward against him and then back into his hands. “Yes.”

“Good.” Another squeeze, a quick smile with an assessing flash of eyes, then he lets go and takes Jamie’s hand. “Come with me.”

They walk back to the playroom, and Jamie’s pulse quickens—will there be something new there, something Patrick bought or rigged up for their special weekend? Or maybe it’ll be their regular toys, but _more_ , more intense, more time. He isn’t sure which would be better. Either way, he’s going to be so good, test his limits, impress Patrick. That’s all that matters.

Patrick opens the door and Jamie hurries forward, almost choking in his rush to see—then going still, because there’s nothing _to_ see, not at first glance. Everything’s in its place, hanging up or pushed back against the walls. Nothing’s laid out for use.

He glances at Patrick and finds him watching closely, a faint smile on his lips. He’s gauging Jamie’s reaction, testing, maybe. Jamie should have guessed things would start with a test.

“I don’t understand,” he says. Immediate confession tends to get good results.

“Look again,” Patrick prompts gently. “Look closer.”

Jamie frowns and tries, turning his head in a slow arc from left to right, studying every foot of the wall and floor. “I don’t…”

“What’s missing?”

_Oh_.This look is quicker. “The restraints? My cuffs are gone.” The pairs he wears, the ones that fit him perfectly. 

 

“And?”

Dammit. “Uh—I’m not… oh! My spreader bar.”

“Good boy.” Patrick brushes the back of his knuckles over Jamie’s cheek and walks over to the door in the back corner. Jamie’s never paid much attention to that; based on the layout of the other rooms, he’s always assumed it’s a small closet from the playroom’s alternate life as an office. A storage room or a coat closet, not one for clothes; this place has walk-ins for clothes, like space isn’t at a premium.

Sure enough, when Patrick opens the door, Jamie can see where it used to have shelves dividing it into four or five spaces for storage. They’ve all been pulled out, leaving the supports on the walls. The set of supports at about chest-high on Patrick now supports a horizontal bar with a leash attached to it.

Patrick’s looking at him expectantly, so Jamie comes closer, reaching in to touch the leash dangling in space. “For me?”

“Do you see anyone else here waiting for it?” He’s teasing, not being mean; Jamie would have to drop to the floor if Patrick was annoyed with him. Grovel for hours. Not that he would object to that, just… apparently it’s not the plan.

“If there’s a leash, I must need a collar?” He watches Patrick from the corner of his eye. “My collar?”

“Listen to you asking questions like you don’t know the answers.” Patrick smiles and taps him lightly on the nose. “Get undressed. Fold your clothes and put them on the bench. I’ll go get your collar.”

It’s what Jamie’s been waiting for, but his hands are suddenly clumsy, fumbling the fly of his jeans and catching the neck of his shirt around his head. He strips all the way down to naked, folding everything together carefully and leaving it on the bench in a neat pile, socks on top. Tidiness always earns him an extra smile from Patrick, maybe even a caress of approval. He wants it.

Sure enough, Patrick smiles at him and runs his hand down the back of his neck, scritching lightly between his shoulder blades. “Good. Kneel for me.” Once Jamie drops, Patrick fits the collar around his neck and buckles it at his throat, then rotates it around so the ring is in front. He steps back and studies Jamie for a moment, looking him up and down, eyes narrowed.

“Don’t pose,” he says, and Jamie makes himself relax. “Just kneel for me. You look good.”

“Thank you.” Jamie licks his lips and ducks his chin, hoping that the cuffs come next. And the bar, god, he wants that, wants to be immobile when Patrick comes after him. 

Patrick reaches past him into the closet, taking the cuffs and spreader bar from the floor. “Hands,” he prompts, and Jamie puts them behind his back, flexing his fingers slowly while Patrick fastens the cuffs, then wiggling his feet and rotating his ankles after the bar is in place. “Everything good?” Patrick asks, and Jamie nods, looking up at him hopefully for what comes next.

Patrick nods to the closet. “Get in.” Jamie hesitates in confusion and Patrick takes hold of his collar, pushing him back toward the open door until Jamie chokes and scrambles on his knees to obey. “Good boy. A little more.”

When Jamie stops again, Patrick clips the leash to his collar and then pets his hair, smiling down at him with the pride and satisfaction that’s all Jamie wants from him, all the reward he ever needs. “Good boy. God, you look just like I imagined. Perfect.”

Jamie shifts back and forth on his knees. “What do you want me to do now?”

Patrick reaches into the corner of the closet again and produces a small bell, the flat kind with a button on top to tap that usually lived on reception desks. He sets it a few inches away from Jamie, then frowns and nudges it closer. “Wait.”

“Wait?” 

Patrick nods and leans down to kiss his forehead. “You trust me?”

“Yes, of course.”

He steps back and closes the door. “Then wait for me.”

**

It takes a few minutes for Jamie’s eyes to adjust to the dark. Enough light is coming in under the door that he has something to adjust to, and to let him make out the bell by his knee and a white shape in the corner that after a moment he figures out is a baby monitor. So Patrick hasn’t left him totally alone; he’s listening from the other room. Jamie relaxes and settles more comfortably on his knees. He knew trusting Patrick was okay.

It’s boring, though, being locked up in here. He wiggles his fingers and toes to make sure his circulation is okay, then shuffles forward, back, left, right, seeing how much play the leash gives him. Six inches in any direction, give or take, and he can’t change the position of his legs because of the spreader bar. He’s going to be sore soon.

But that’s the challenge, of course; that’s why Patrick put him in here. It’s a test that he has to pass in order to win the pride and praise he loves. If he can’t handle it, he can ring the bell and Patrick will let him out, and he won’t be _mad_ , but—

Well. Jamie hates failing. Letting Patrick down would definitely be failing. So he’s going to wait.

It’s strange, not being able to have any sense of time. He counts breaths for a while, thinks about the unhappiness of his knees in this position, runs through his appointment schedule for next week. He thinks about what he’ll buy Jordie and Justin for dinner when they get home, to apologize for not going with them. He thinks about his laundry.

Then he runs out of things to think about and just kind of drifts inside his head, feeling spit pool in his mouth until he gives up and swallows, feeling his pulse throb in his temples with nowhere to go.

His knees are solid balls of pain when he hears footsteps approaching; he manages to square his shoulders and sit up straighter as the door swings open and Patrick looks down on him. “There you are,” Patrick says softly. “You were good for me.”

Jamie nods, shifting back and forth again and wincing against the pain. “Y-yes. Sir.”

“Good boy.” Patrick runs his fingers through Jamie’s hair, pushing his head back, and Jamie goes easily, letting Patrick move him around like a puppet. It’s good, it’s so good, letting Patrick be in charge; he can ride through pain a lot worse than this to earn it.

Patrick lets his head fall forward again and unfastens the leash, then hooks his fingers in Jamie’s collar and tugs lightly. “Come with me. Crawl.”

It’s not quite crawling, more shuffling forward on his knees, but Jamie does his best, following Patrick out into the playroom. His clothes are gone, the bench waiting bare and unoccupied. Patrick pulls up and Jamie tries to follow, choking a little as his body can’t quite obey and the collar goes tight against his throat.

Patrick eases the pressure and looks down at him. “No?”

Jamie shakes his head a little, cringing. “C-can’t.”

“I see.” There’s just a hint of disappointment in his voice, but it’s enough to make Jamie’s stomach twist up and a sour taste flood his mouth. “All right. I’ll help you.”

It’s awkward and uncomfortable—both physically and because he’s _a disappointment_ —but Patrick gets his arm around Jamie’s waist and helps lift him up over the bench. His stomach is on the padding, holding his weight, with his head on one side and his legs on the other, bent over with his ass in the air. His feet aren’t really supporting him, just resting on the floor, but the change in position is enough to give his knees a break and stretch out his calves enough to be a relief.

“Okay?” Patrick asks.

Jamie nods, gulping quick breaths. Patrick’s hand settles on his ass, rubbing soothing little circles, and he tries to focus on that touch to the exclusion of everything else. 

Patrick keeps rubbing even after Jamie’s breath evens out, but mixes in a few pinches, little stings that are there and gone again before Jamie’s brain quite registers, like it’s running a beat behind. He pushes back into the contact, mindlessly seeking out the sharp pain that will ground him in his body instead of the gathering aches that are leaving him floating in it.

“Good boy,” Patrick murmurs, “such a good boy.” A hard slap follows, open-handed and solid across his ass, and Jamie moans and rocks forward against the bench. His dick is trying to get hard, but it’s caught against the edge of the padding at an awkward angle that’s going to make it hurt; he doesn’t know if Patrick did that on purpose or not, but he wants to pretend that he did, that he thought out even the smallest details.

It keeps going for a while, a cycle of slow, measured spanking and pinching that fades back into rubbing and keeps Jamie from finding a predictable pattern. He moans and pushes forward and back, not sure which sensation he wants more or how to ask for it. His wrists ache. His cock aches. His ass feels hot and so sensitive he might be on fire. It’s everything he hoped for.

Patrick steps back for a moment and the loss of contact leaves Jamie spinning and adrift, his mouth opening to gulp air again as he fights not to make a sound of protest. Gotta be patient. Gotta wait and see what Patrick wants to give him.

He can just barely catch some of Patrick’s movement out of the corner of his eye—slipping his sweats down off his hips, it looks like, and stepping out of them, kicking them aside. He steps toward Jamie again, one hand reaching for Jamie’s ass to steady himself, and moves close enough that he’s out of view again. But Jamie doesn’t need to see him anymore, because he can feel it, the hard curve of Patrick’s cock pressed against his ass, and then it sliding against him, settling between his cheeks but not pushing against his entrance. 

Patrick makes a sound, low and rough in his throat, and starts to thrust, rubbing against Jamie with a fast, sloppy rhythm. It’s a slide of dry skin against hot, irritated skin that’s only slightly wet with sweat, and it’s not _good_ by any means. Jamie has to think that the friction on Patrick’s dick would be more painful than anything. But Patrick’s still making that sound, still rolling his hips in sharp thrusts and grinding against him, and if that’s what he wants, well. 

Jamie will give him _anything_ he wants. Anything.

Patrick pulls back before he comes, so it splatters over Jamie’s ass and lower back, a little bit dripping down his thighs. “Good. Fuck.” Patrick’s hands settle on his shoulders, running slow strokes down to the middle of his back and up again. “God, Jamie, you’re so fucking good.”

“T-thank you, sir,” Jamie gasps, ducking his chin and biting at the edge of the padding on the bench. His knees are shaking with tension from holding himself up, his calves are screaming again, his wrists feel like they’ve ached this way forever—but he’ll take it, and more, he’ll take all of it to make Patrick proud.

“Good,” Patrick says again, and kisses the back of his neck. His hands move to the cuffs, and it takes Jamie a moment to realize he’s unbuckling them, until they hit the floor and Patrick starts rubbing his wrists, pressing his thumbs against the where they dug into his skin.

“Move your fingers for me,” Patrick prompts, and Jamie does, wiggling them all together and then each in turn as Patrick asks. Once he’s checked all ten, Patrick kneels and undoes the buckles on the spreader bar, too, tossing that aside while Jamie gets his arms under himself to help support his weight and then stretches out each leg as directed.

“You’re amazing,” Patrick tells him, the words heartfelt and proud, and Jamie feels like he’s glowing all over. Patrick’s come is drying on his skin, a strange feeling that he doesn’t _quite_ like, but it’s a badge of honor, too.

Patrick helps him straighten up on his feet and stretch his arms out in slow arcs, making sure everything’s working smoothly, then gives him a bottle of water to drink. “All of it,” he says when Jamie tries to stop after a few swallows. “You need it. C’mon.”

Jamie does as he’s told, then stands for a minute, just feeling his breath and his pulse. “W-what next?”

“You want more already?”

“Want whatever you want.”

Patrick kisses his forehead, then hooks his fingers in Jamie’s collar and tugs him back toward the closet. “It’s late. Time to get some sleep.” 

It takes Jamie a minute to realize what he means. “In—in there?”

Patrick stops and looks at him seriously. “Is that all right?”

Jamie looks at the closet for a long moment, then back at him. “It’s what you want?”

“It is.” Patrick brushes Jamie’s hair back, his other hand still hooked in the collar, knuckles pressed warm and solid against Jamie’s throat. “But you can tap out if you don’t want it.”

Jamie takes a breath and stares into the dark space beyond the closet door. He can see the leash dangling, the little red light on the monitor, the dull gleam of the bell on the floor. He’s not cuffed this time; he’ll be able to move when he needs to. 

And Patrick wants it.

“Okay,” he says, just above a whisper. “Okay, I can do it.”

“You’re sure?” Patrick brushes at his hair again, petting him. “I’m a light sleeper, if you ring the bell I’ll come let you out no matter what time it is.”

Something eases in Jamie’s chest. Patrick’s _such_ a good dom, looking out for him, thinking about him. “Yeah. Okay.”

Patrick lets go of his collar and cups his chin in both hands, kissing him hard and deep. “You’re fucking amazing. So good for me.”

Jamie leans into him, soaking up as much touch as he can, dragging out the kiss, until Patrick finally breaks away. He steers Jamie to the closet and Jamie obediently kneels again, tilting his head back so Patrick can clip the leash in place.

Patrick makes sure the bell is close and the monitor is working, then kisses Jamie’s forehead again and steps back, his hand on the door. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Jamie whispers, and the door swings closed, leaving him in the almost-perfect dark.

His eyes adjust again after a moment, and he shifts around carefully, experimenting with how much he can move and change position. Can’t lie down with the leash on, can’t quite lean against the walls, but he can sit with his knees drawn up and rest his head on them, or sit on his butt with his legs folded pretzel-style and his chin slumped against his chest. He’s not going to get any deep sleep that way, but he can doze, and nothing’s going to go numb on him. His butt is _sore_ when he sits on it like that, but he can take it.

He doesn’t just want to believe now, he _does_ believe that Patrick thought about all of this, all the details. He’s giving Jamie everything he needs to be able to do this, to take everything Patrick asks him to. All Jamie has to do is be strong.

***

It’s a long night. When the door opens and Patrick lets the light in, he’s huddled in on himself, resting his forehead on his knees to give his neck a break. His butt hurts like hell in this position, instead; he’s been trading them on and off all night.

“How’s my boy?” Patrick asks, his voice soft and warm and _pleased_. It makes Jamie want to grovel and cry.

Some tears do slip out when Patrick undoes the leash and helps him to his feet. He ducks his head to try to hide them, but Patrick already saw—he makes a soft sound and wipes Jamie’s face with his hand.

“Oh, babe,” he murmurs, putting his arm around Jamie’s waist and guiding him through the playroom to the bathroom door. “You’re doing so good for me. You’re amazing. I’m so proud of you.”

Jamie sniffles and nods, letting his head fall against Patrick’s shoulder. “Th-thank you, sir. I’m trying.”

“You’re doing great. You’re perfect. Here.” Patrick puts the toilet seat up and steadies Jamie with both hands at his waist. “Go ahead.”

It takes Jamie a minute—peeing in front of Patrick, while Patrick _helps him stand up_ —is so fucking embarrassing it makes him want to cry more. But Patrick expects it, and is helping him with it, so no matter how awful it is he’s gotta do it. Gotta make him proud. It’s one more test, that’s all, one more way to prove that he can be an obedient sub. He can be perfect.

And also he really, desperately _needs_ to pee. If Patrick had waited another hour, there might have been an accident back there in the closet, and then Jamie would have actually died of shame, no question.

Patrick helps him clean up and wash his hands, then takes him back into the playroom and directs him to sit down on the floor. “I’ll be right back. Stretch out if you want to, eh? Make sure everything’s good.”

Jamie definitely needs to stretch. He goes through one of the whole-body sets that he can do on autopilot after years of hockey and baseball, coaxing each set of muscles and tendons out of painful constriction and back to themselves. Everything aches by the time he’s done, his body tender and hot, but he’s confident that nothing’s damaged, anyway.

Patrick comes back just as he’s finishing up, carrying a tray. He places it on the bench and Jamie sees that there’s toast with peanut butter, a bowl of oatmeal, and a glass of juice. Jamie reaches for the toast and Patrick slaps him sharply on the back of the hand.

“You’ll sit and be fed.” His voice is low and mild, but there’s no missing the rebuke, and Jamie ducks his head in penitence, silently willing his dick not to get hard over something so minor and stupid.

Something taps against his cheek and he looks up again. It’s a spoonful of oatmeal, leaving a wet sticky streak on his skin as he gets his mouth open and turned toward it. Patrick slips it into his mouth and Jamie carefully sucks the spoon clean, closing his eyes and savoring the taste. It’s just oatmeal, with a little brown sugar, nothing exciting at all, but he can’t remember what time he ate yesterday, and this little touch of flavor makes his mouth flood with drool.

Patrick feeds him slowly, rotating through the items on the tray. A few spoonfuls of oatmeal, a bite of toast, two sips of orange juice. Jamie feels better almost immediately, the calories hitting his system apparently exactly what he needed. He smiles up at Patrick, vaguely aware that he must look blissed-out and dopey but not caring all that much. Patrick smiles back and rubs the back of his fingers against Jamie’s cheek, a gentle caress that also wipes the smudge of oatmeal away.

“So good,” he says in that same low, intense voice. “We’re going to do so much today. I can’t wait to see how you take it.”

Jamie leans into him, a shudder running through his body. He can’t believe he’s this lucky. He shouldn’t be this lucky, he’s never done anything to deserve it, but here he is. It’s happening.

Patrick lets him sit for a few more minutes, petting him gently and looking him over with evident pride. “Do you need any more?” he asks, touching Jamie’s lower lip with his thumb. “I don’t want you to be stuffed, but you’ve got to keep your energy up.”

“Some more juice? Or water?” Jamie wants to stay ready. His first instinct is to ask for coffee, but he’s not sure his stomach could handle it easily right now, and he doesn’t want to throw off Patrick’s plans.

Patrick smiles at him and pets his hair, then takes the tray and goes to the kitchen. Jamie runs through his stretches again, taking slow deep breaths and willing the food to settle in his stomach. Patrick comes back with water, and Jamie drinks that while Patrick goes around taking things from their racks and drawers and setting them out by the bench. Jamie sees the spreader bar, and a second one; a heavy gag that they’ve used once before that he hates as much as he loves; and a satiny bag that Patrick opens to produce a bottle of lube and a thick, hard plastic dildo.

Jamie chokes on his water, and Patrick grins at him, turning the toy so he can see that it’s a vibrator, too, with a dial in the end to turn the power up and down. 

“Finish your drink,” Patrick prompts, and Jamie manages to obey, watching wide-eyed while Patrick gets a towel from the bathroom and lays it out on the floor next to everything else.

He pats the towel, looking intently at Jamie. “Come here and lie down. I want the towel under your hips, okay? So you don’t make a mess on the floor when we get you all slicked up.”

Thank god for nice clear directions. Jamie does as he’s told, blinking up at the ceiling while Patrick shifts him around a bit, getting him how he wants, and then pushes his feet apart and his knees open. It feels like he’s being set up for a medical examination or something, his genitals and his ass exposed, and Patrick’s touching him like a doctor or something, too, brisk and impersonal. He pushes Jamie’s dick up to flop against his stomach, then touches his opening lightly before running his hand down Jamie’s inner thigh and reaching for the spreader bar.

He extends it to its full length before he buckles it in place, making sure Jamie’s ankles and knees stay spread. Then he cues Jamie to sit up and uses the other spreader bar to hold his wrists apart, the bar running behind his back so they’re held at his sides. Jamie lies back down when he’s told, and they spend a minute shifting the bar and the fold of the towel around to make sure the bar isn’t pressing against his spine.

“Good?” Patrick asks finally, and Jamie nods; it’s not _comfortable_ , exactly, but it’s not supposed to be. It’s workable and it won’t hurt him.

“Good,” Patrick says again, and reaches for the gag. “Open up.”

**

Things are a blur for a while after that.

Patrick works the vibrator inside him slowly but without backing off even once; he gives Jamie time to adjust and watches his hands for signals that Jamie needs to tap out, but every time he touches the toy it’s to push it in deeper. Jamie’s breathing deep and shaking though his thighs and knees by the time it’s fully seated in him, and then there’s no time to adjust before Patrick twists the dial and the toy comes to life.

That’s where he loses the most time, shaking and gasping and overwhelmed, half-choking on his own spit when he forgets to concentrate on breathing through his nose, his body half pleasured and half torn apart by the stretch and vibrations deep inside. Patrick plays with the speed and intensity, turning it up and down in no apparent rhythm, and Jamie’s body gets knocked around like he’s playing in the waves. It’s so much, maybe _too_ much, but he can’t process enough to know what too much even means.

He comes, sooner than he would have expected, spilling hot and messy across his stomach and chest. Patrick turns the toy to its lowest setting, but not off, leaving him still shuddering and twitching in reaction to the constant buzz.

“Beautiful.” Patrick’s voice is hoarse, raw, and he stands up slowly, moving to stand over Jamie and look down at him with an expression so full of wonder and hunger and _possession_ that Jamie almost forgets to breathe.

Patrick jerks off over him, adding his own come to the mess on Jamie’s skin, and Jamie moans around the gag, helpless and lost. For a moment Patrick just stands there, naked over him, his hand on his cock, and Jamie looks up at him, wanting direction and instructions but also just wanting to memorize this forever, this moment where he’s surrendered and marked and brought perfectly low, exactly how he wants, while his dom stands over him in equally perfect possession. It’s so good. It’s everything.

But the vibration is tearing him apart and his next moan is less of pleasure and more desperation. Patrick starts and quickly kneels again, reaching between Jamie’s legs and turning the dial to zero. The room goes silent except for their equally ragged, desperate breathing.

“You,” Patrick says after a moment. He bends his head and kisses Jamie’s stomach, the mess of come and sweat not giving him a second’s pause. “You really can take anything, can’t you? You’re incredible.”

Jamie doesn’t know if he is or not. He knows he’s exhausted again, and proud, and hopefully going to get a brief recovery break before he has to be good for Patrick again. Without one he might start to cry.

Oh, but maybe Patrick wants that. Maybe he should keep that in mind, maybe—

Patrick eases the towel out from under his hips and wipes Jamie down a bit, cleaning the skin around where his body is clutched tight around the toy. “Do you think you can move like this?” he asks conversationally. “Can you get back to your room?”

Jamie blinks in bafflement until he realizes Patrick means the closet. Fuck. He _might_ be able to, if he tries his absolute hardest, but he doesn’t… he doesn’t want to, is the thing. It’s dark and lonely and he wants Patrick with him, wants praise and reassurance.

Patrick is still looking at him, expectantly, and Jamie feels panic tightening his chest and his throat. He can’t give the right answer, and he doesn’t want to give the wrong one, he doesn’t want to be _bad_. All he can do is squeeze his eyes closed and hope against all logic that the problem will go away.

“Hey.” Patrick’s voice is softer. “Hey, it’s all right. We can stay here. Hey.” Jamie feels him moving around, and then his head is lifted and settled against warmth; in Patrick’s lap, he realizes. Patrick’s hands are on his chest, rubbing soothing little circles. “Just rest. I can wait while you rest. It’s okay.”

Jamie can’t quite stop himself from crying. He doesn’t _want_ to cry, but Patrick is so nice and gentle, and taking such good care of him, he can’t help it. Tears run down his face and he chokes and sniffles, gulping for air, while Patrick keeps crooning at him and wiping at his face every so often.

The crying doesn’t last too long. He ends up half-turned on his side, his cheek pressed against Patrick’s knee, blinking dazedly at the side of the bench. His mind feels a hundred miles from his body, drifting in a warm sea. He doesn’t want to move or think ever again; he isn’t sure he _can_ , but that’s okay. Patrick has him.

Patrick tugs gently at his hair, then again, until Jamie slowly drags his eyes to look at him. “I’m going to get you something,” Patrick says softly. “I’ll be back, though. Just lie still and wait for me.”

Jamie blinks, the best he can do for assent, and Patrick carefully eases his head out of his lap and onto the floor. The spreader bar holding his wrists apart is awkward like this; he has to turn fully onto his back to ease the pressure, and then stare at the ceiling, still drifting peacefully apart from his body.

He hears Patrick’s soft chuckle before he realizes he’s knelt down beside him. “You’re pretty out of it.” Patrick’s arm slides under Jamie’s shoulders and slowly guides him up to sitting, then turns him so he can lean against the bench. Once he’s settled, Patrick sits down next to him and produces a banana, peeling it quickly and breaking a piece off into his hand. “This should help. I got some water, too, but let’s get something solid in you first.”

Jamie opens his mouth obediently, but Patrick shakes his head, crushing the piece of banana in his hand and letting it thickly coat his fingers. “I don’t trust you to chew without choking. Here.” He brings his fingers to Jamie’s mouth, wiping the banana mush lightly on his lips. “Lick it up. C’mon. It’ll make you feel better.”

Jamie licks his lips, closing his eyes as the taste spreads on his tongue. Then he swallows, and it’s like he can feel the molecules moving through his whole body. Amazing. Magic. He never thought about how his body can _do_ this. He licks again, cleaning his lips, then licks Patrick’s fingers slowly, the texture of his skin distracting and marvelous under the taste.. 

Patrick is gentle; he works his fingers in deeper so Jamie can get every last bit of the banana, then mashes up more, offering the next bit from his fingertips instead of smearing it, so Jamie can take it with his lips instead of licking. It’s a way of bringing him up slowly, making him work harder as the food reaches his system and his brain fires more clearly, until by the last bit he’s chewing and his eyes are focused. A slow effort, but a good one.

He feels like he’s climbed a fucking mountain. God, Patrick’s making him work for it.

He blinks up at Patrick and gets a smile in response, then a kiss on his forehead. “Very good.” 

“Water?” Jamie mumbles in response, and a straw is brought to his mouth, resting in a cup of water that’s no longer cold but still so good, soothing and clear in his mouth and throat.

He drains the cup, then sits still for a while, taking deep slow breaths while Patrick rubs his shoulders and back. “Okay,” he says finally, nodding. “Okay. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” Patrick’s hand slides to the back of his neck and squeezes gently. “I always want to be good to you.”

Jamie shakes his head. “I want to do whatever you want from me. I don’t want to let you down.”

“You won’t. You’re amazing.” Patrick squeezes again. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else?”

Jamie shrugs and shakes his head. He isn’t _sure_ of anything except that he wants to stay like this, close to Patrick, for as long as he can. Or be asleep. That would also be okay. 

“Hmm.” Patrick’s hand goes still for a moment, then moves away, but before Jamie can manage a whimper of protest, he feels Patrick start to undo the buckles holding the spreader bar to his wrists. The bar falls away from one side, then the other, and Patrick rubs at the reddened skin briskly, guiding Jamie’s arms through a gentle range of stretches before letting them go and getting to his feet.

“You’re doing so well,” he says, looking down at Jamie. “You need a rest now?”

Jamie nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Can you rest in your room, if I take everything off? No restraints, you can move around.” He waits while Jamie hesitates. “It’s a real question. Not a trick. If you say you can’t, then you don’t have to.”

Jamie knows he means that. He _trusts_ Patrick. But even though he just spoke his fear of disappointing his dom out loud, and Patrick said it wouldn’t happen, he still just… can’t. He can’t say no directly like this. He has to _try_.

“I can rest in there,” he says quietly. “Please take the bar off, though, yeah. Please.”

“Good boy.” Patrick kneels down in front of him to undo those buckles, and it makes Jamie’s heart jump a little—Patrick kneeling for _him_ , caring for him, it’s perfectly right and it’s backwards all at once. Everything’s so confusing. Everything’s so good.

He’s so tired.

Patrick takes his hands once the bar is set aside and helps him to his feet, supporting his weight while they shuffle over to the closet. He doesn’t attach the leash this time, leaving Jamie restraint-free for real. He presses a kiss to Jamie’s forehead, then his mouth, lingering there like Jamie is something precious.

Then he closes the door and goes away, and Jamie sinks slowly down to the floor, curling up and closing his eyes in the dark.

**

He wakes up groggy when the door opens again, not quite pulling himself together until Patrick is already kneeling next to him and offering a bottle of Gatorade with a straw. It’s cool and sweet and Jamie closes his eyes to drink as fast as he can, flooding his system with sugar and feeling everything in his body light up at once.

“Hey there,” Patrick says softly. “Feeling better?”

Jamie nods and struggles to catch his breath, coughing a little as the switch from swallowing to breathing goes clumsy. “Y-yes, sir.”

“Good.” Patrick pets his hair, studying him carefully. “Ready to come back out?”

Jamie nods and pulls himself up onto his hands and knees, then crawls after Patrick back into the playroom. Everything from before has been cleaned up and put away; the room is as neat and tidy as when they started. For a minute it makes him doubt himself—did any of that really happen at all? did he imagine it?—and he stops moving, ducking his head and huddling in on himself a few feet from the closet door.

“Uh oh.” Patrick kneels down by him again and pets his back. “Do you need to tap out?”

Jamie shakes his head, squeezing his eyes tightly closed for a moment before sitting up. “No, sir. I can take it.”

“There’s no rush. We’ve got lots of time.”

Jamie doesn’t know how long they’ve been playing for already, much less when they have to stop. The whole concept of time has become kind of strange and pliable, twisting around him like caramel or something else that melts and folds away. He leans into Patrick’s body and tries to focus on the solidity of it, the warmth, to use those to rebuild things that make sense in the world.

“Need you,” he mumbles, and Patrick tugs him closer, squeezing his arm.

“What do you need?”

Jamie licks his lips, trying to drag his thoughts into order, but they’re just not coming. He’s going to have to blurt out exactly what he’s thinking, messy and raw, and hope that’s okay.

“Need you to take charge of me. Own me. Do whatever you want.” He feels Patrick’s hand tighten more in surprise. “Don’t want to decide.”

He feels a shiver run through Patrick’s body, but the arms around him stay steady, and the kiss Patrick presses to the top of his head is gentle. “Okay. I can do that.”

“Please,” Jamie says, barely above a whisper, and that makes Patrick let go of him with one arm, bringing his hand around to tip Jamie’s chin up. Their eyes meet for a moment and then Patrick’s kissing him, hungry and frantic, like Jamie just threw a lock and set him free.

The kissing goes on for a while, and then Patrick pulls away long enough to grab the cushion from the bench and pull it down with them. He catches Jamie’s hip and roughly turns him over onto his stomach, then prompts him to lift his torso and pushes the cushion under it so his face won’t be pressed to the floor.

Jamie can guess what’s coming and lets himself go slack, releasing the edge of control over his muscles that’s hard to keep hold of anymore anyway. He can hear Patrick popping the cap on the bottle of lube, and then the squelching sound of him slicking his fingers and cock just before they’re all pressed to Jamie’s body.

The sex is fast and messy; Jamie can’t muster the control to push back or collect his hips, so he tucks his chin against the edge of the cushion and just takes it, his body pliant and open to Patrick. He can feel his dick swelling to half-hard, but no further, the raw input of friction and stimulation there but his brain not quite able to fire the rest of the cylinders. He doesn’t need it, anyway, not right now. His body is there but his mind is somewhere else, somewhere beyond, aware of the sensations and proud of himself for taking it but not really _needing_ any of it anymore.

Patrick pushes deeper inside him and Jamie feels the hot gush as he comes. He shudders, biting at the edge of the cushion as Patrick slowly pulls out. 

“Okay?” Patrick asks breathlessly, and Jamie nods, letting go of the cushion so he can take a gulp of air. He turns over slowly, pushing the cushion away and lying splayed-out, his body sweaty and flushed and pinging with oversensitized nerves. It’s too much, he thinks distantly, coming back to himself from that far-away place is _definitely_ too much. The dribble of jizz down his inner thighs is almost unbearable.

He doesn’t say anything, though, just curls his hands into weak fists and focuses on breathing while Patrick moves away, going over to one of the cabinets on the wall to get something. Jamie squeezes his thighs together to try to alleviate the sensation, but it doesn’t really work, just spreads the mess and stickiness around. 

He’s suddenly terribly aware of all the other dried sweat and come on his skin, from… however long they’ve been playing. He’s a mess. It’s Patrick’s mess, Patrick claiming him, but for a minute that’s not enough to keep himself from shuddering.

Then Patrick is back beside him, kneeling down and running a soothing hand down his side, and everything slots back into its proper place.

“Some more water?” Patrick asks, and Jamie nods, parting his lips for the straw. It’s soothing, grounding. He can feel his heart slow down a little as he drinks, and it’s easier to relax into the good floaty feeling of being in Patrick’s hands.

From the corner of his eye he can see what Patrick got from the cabinet—a heavy cloth gag, wrapped around his hand and ignored right now while he pets Jamie and coaxes him through sips of water. Jamie’s stomach swoops and tightens at the sight. He can’t imagine anymore what’s going to come next, what Patrick might want him to do. Patrick is steps ahead of him, and that’s the way it should be.

When he’s finished the glass, Patrick pets him a bit more, apparently content to wait until Jamie signals that he’s ready to keep going. Part of Jamie doesn’t want to signal at all; he wants to stay here, drifting and warm, until he falls asleep, and then he wants to sleep for an entire day. When he eventually wakes up, he wants a full breakfast with waffles, eggs, bacon, and maybe a couple more weird random side dishes. His body and mind are pretty well spent, he’s pretty sure. Part of him is pretty sure.

The rest of him, though. The rest of him just wants to be _good_ , and find out what else Patrick has waiting. He can’t let Patrick down.

So he sits up a bit straighter and blinks rapidly, then looks at Patrick with a hopeful smile. “Sir?”

Patrick smiles back, cupping Jamie’s jaw in his hand. “Such a good boy. You’re ready?”

Jamie nods, squaring his shoulders and drawing a careful breath. “Yeah.”

Patrick ties the gag around his head, and Jamie feels the cloth immediately start to soak up his spit. He hates this about cloth gags; the heavy, sodden feel in his mouth that starts up almost immediately, eventually turning to threads of drool running down from the corners of his lips to his chin. He can take it, though. He can be good.

Patrick is either a very good planner or can tell that Jamie’s tired. He puts the cuffs and spreader back on, soothing Jamie’s inadvertent whimpers at the sight of them, then gently moves his body around, until he’s arched backward, leaning on his hands. The wrist cuffs are clipped to the spreader bar, and Patrick steps back, studying the picture Jamie makes.

It’s not a hard posture to hold, since he can lean on his hands. Letting his head fall back is the easiest way to sit, which is going to make his neck hurt after a bit, but none of his muscles or joints are straining to hold the pose. He can wait like this. He can even go floating off in his head, like this, which seems to be what Patrick wants at this point in the weekend.

After a while he hears the click and hiss of a lighter, and smells the soft bloom of a candle. It takes a while for the wax to soften, of course, and even once it is, Patrick moves slowly enough that he can brace himself before the liquid pain spills down his shoulders and his chest. Patrick soothes and pets, and Jamie cries, tears spilling back into his eyes and soaking into the gag as well, making it heavier against his lips and tongue.

Patrick sets the candle aside and unfastens the cuffs from the bar. “Good boy. So good. C’mon, now. Crawl for me.”

Jamie follows him across the room, dragging his knees along and concentrating on placing his hands carefully so he doesn’t wobble. The wax keeps cracking on his skin, startling every time it pulls.

It seems a lot farther to the closet door than it was before. He’s kind of looking forward to the dark and quiet of it even as he dreads being alone. 

Patrick snaps his collar to the leash again once he’s inside, and cuffs his hands behind his back, planting another kiss on Jamie’s forehead before he steps out and closes the door. Jamie sits there in the dark, counting heartbeats, trying to remember how to tell his emotions apart through the swirling fog in his head.

He gives up and dozes for a while, restless fitful sleep since every time he starts to truly drift off, the collar and leash pull him back again. The second or third time it happens he sobs, a shaky unhappy sound in the dark, his fingers curling against his palms. 

It isn’t good anymore, it isn’t fun, he hurts and he’s tired and he’s _filthy_ and he wants to be done.

He fumbles in the dark, shuffling toward where he remembers the bell sitting in his glimpse of the closet, and finally feels the metal against his knee. He shifts his weight, lifts his knee, and hits it.

_Ding!_

A sharp clear noise, cutting through his the fogginess in his brain. _Ding_!

Footsteps come rapidly through the apartment, distant at first and then in the playroom. Jamie’s chest eases, the amount of air he can draw in feeling like it doubles. Patrick’s going to take care of him now. He tapped out and it’s over, he wasn’t as good as he _could_ be but he still did well, and even if Patrick’s disappointed he won’t be mean about it, he isn’t _mean_ , he’s a good dom.

The door swings open and Patrick reaches for him, then checks himself and unclips the leash instead. “Shit. Jamie? Too much? Shit.”

Jamie tries to nod and shake his head at once, moaning around the gag. Patrick unties that next, muttering _shit_ under his breath over and over again as he drops to his knees to reach for the cuffs and spreader. 

“Okay,” Jamie mumbles. “‘M okay. Just. D-done. I guess. Don’t be mad.”

“Shh, don’t try to talk.” Patrick shoves the restraints away and wraps his arms around Jamie, pulling him up to his feet and bracing himself under Jamie’s weight. “Shit. I fucked this up. I thought…”

“‘S okay, I promise.”

“You can’t _see_ you.” Patrick’s voice cracks and he gulps for breath, then shakes his head and starts across the playroom to the bathroom door. Jamie closes his eyes and lets himself be muscled along; he wants to tell Patrick that he’s wrong, that everything’s okay, but he’s so tired. He’ll tell him later.

**

There’s a shower, he knows that, warm and careful, Patrick standing under the spray with him fully-dressed and washing him clean from head to toe.

There’s being bundled into the soft, wonderful guest bed, and told to close his eyes but _wait_ and not drop off yet if he can help it. Somehow he manages it, and Patrick goes away and comes back with applesauce and Gatorade and water, and he has to take _all_ of it before he’s allowed to sleep.

There’s a few flashes of being gently shaken awake and guided to the bathroom, where he pees and mumbles in protest and then is taken back to bed and fed toast and juice before being tucked under the blankets again.

He knows all of that happens, vaguely, moments of actual memory mixed in with dreams and peaceful dark. But he’s not _fully_ awake again, not in the sense of having control of all of his faculties, until he startles out of another dream at the sound of fists hammering on the apartment door, and then the doorknob hitting the wall with a bang as the door flies open.

Patrick’s voice is muffled, but he can hear him speaking quickly and firmly, saying something about _it’s not what you think_ and _yes he’s here, he’s okay, you don’t have to—_

“Where the fuck is he?”

That’s Jordie’s voice, cutting through the walls loud and clear, and Jamie’s body starts getting out of bed before his mind’s quite caught up. He’s standing up and taking a step toward the door when he realizes he’s naked; looping back to the bed and grabbing the blanket to wrap around himself costs another precious few seconds. When he opens the door into the hall he can see that, in the living room, Jordie already has Patrick shoved against the wall, with Justin leaning in close, too, looking pissed off and scary.

“Hey,” Jamie says, trying to hurry toward them without tripping over the blanket. “Hey, no, don’t—he didn’t do anything bad, I’m okay.”

Jordie and Justin both whirl to face him, and he falters to a stop, because—

They’re looking at him like they see a ghost, almost. Like yeah, they see him, but not… not as they expected. Kinda bad. Jamie very belatedly, for the first time in _days_ , wonders just what he looks like, instead of concentrating entirely on how he feels.

“I’m okay,” he says again, and tries to smile, clutching the blanket tightly around himself, hiding as much of his body as he can. “It’s not… not what you guys look like you think. Wasn’t kidnapped or anything. He didn’t hurt me.”

Jordie recovers his voice first. “Bull. Fucking. Shit.”

“No, it isn’t, I’m fine, just—”

“You _disappeared_ , Jamie!” Jamie knows that Jordie is yelling because he was scared, that it’s all adrenaline and worry coming out as volume, but _fuck_ , he hates Jordie yelling at him. “You were supposed to be home sick but you didn’t answer texts. So we called you and you didn’t answer that. We thought you were fucking dead!”

Shit, _shit_. He hadn’t thought about that, hadn’t come up with a plan, just got caught up in what he was doing and forgot about it. “I’m sorry. I’m fine, though! I’m okay!”

“We got home and you _weren’t there_!” Jordie’s voice breaks a little and he turns away, slamming his fist into the wall a few feet from Patrick’s head. Patrick, who kept standing frozen even after Jordie and Justin’s attention turned away, and who was staring at Jamie with a kind of mute agony in his eyes that Jamie didn’t know what to do with.

“We called hospitals,” Justin says, his voice hoarse and tired. “We were really afraid that something happened to you.”

Jamie’s chest constricts painfully. “I’m sorry.”

“We were searching your room, we found the…” Justin stops and shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t. Let’s just get you out of here, okay? Jordie, that’s what you want, right?”

Jordie’s rubbing his fist and staring past Patrick down the other hallway, toward the kitchen. “I want to get out of here. I want to go home.”

“We’re all gonna go home.” Justin’s gaze flicks back to Jamie. “You got clothes, Jame? Can we get you dressed and get out of here?”

Jamie looks over to Patrick quickly, trying not to let himself seem helpless or needy, even though what he _wanted_ right now was for Patrick to take charge of the moment. He wanted Patrick’s hands to put him back together into a ready state to go back into the world. He wanted Patrick to finish the last soothing bits of aftercare and talk to him about how their weekend had gone. He wanted to end this by _solidifying_ what they’d built together, not leaving it all raw and open and exposed for Justin and Jordie to stare at like this.

But they were staring, and they were standing in between them, and Jamie knows them both well enough to know that they’re not going to let him and Patrick have a moment at all, much less a while to calm down together. He can’t fight it, not right now. He’s too tired, his body already starting to sway a bit from being upright for this long.

Maybe his brief glance to Patrick said all that; maybe Patrick only got the one concrete piece he could do something about. “Your clothes are in the guest room,” he says quietly. “Folded on the dresser. Everything you brought with you. Your phone is there, too.”

“I’ll help you get dressed,” Justin says quickly, watching Jordie again. “Jordie, sit down and take a few deep breaths. Maybe have some water.”

“I’d rather wring this motherfucker’s neck.”

“Maybe don’t do that. We don’t want to drag the cops into this, eh? I told you on the way here, that goes bad for all of us. Including Jamie.”

Jordie nods stiffly and sits down on the couch, staring at his hands. Justin starts guiding Jamie back down the hall to the guest room. And Jamie can’t see what Patrick does; in his head, Patrick stays frozen there, just watching, with that light in his eyes that Jamie can’t name.

In the bedroom, Justin unwraps the blanket from Jamie’s shoulders and kicks it out of the way. “Jesus. What were you two _doing_? You look like you went through a fucking war.”

“Just scening.” Jamie shakes his head and reaches for his t-shirt. His hands are shaking pretty bad now, even when he clenches his fists to try to make them stop. It’s embarrassing and stupid and he doesn’t want it, doesn’t want any of this, especially not Jordie and Justin rewriting the weekend into something ugly. 

“You were doing full slave play? 24-7 stuff?”

“24-7. I don’t think it was slave stuff. I don’t know.” He pulls the t-shirt on and wishes it was heavier. He wants a hoodie that he can disappear inside, draw his arms in and put the hood up and be hidden.

“Did you have a safe word? Did he respect it?” Justin watches him fumble to unfold his jeans. “Jesus, Jamie. Lean on the dresser. I’ll help you.”

“Of course he respected it.” Jamie closes his eyes tightly and does as he’s told. Has to be dressed like a baby. Fuck. “It was _good_ , Justin. I swear. It was so good. Everything was.”

Justin stands for a moment, head bowed, not looking at him. “He took you pretty far out there, Jamie.”

Jamie shrugs. “He brought me back. He took care of me.”

“I think he maybe did more than you were really ready for. All at once. You really do look like shit.” 

“Maybe a little too much. I guess. But it _felt_ good. Taking it. Making him proud.”

Justin groans under his breath and nudges Jamie’s leg, waiting for him to lift it so Justin could help him into his jeans. “I knew you were a subby bitch, Jamie, but I didn’t know you were _this much_ of a subby bitch.”

“I guess I am.”

“You need a keeper.” Both legs in, Justin guides the jeans up to his waist, letting Jamie wiggle and squirm as needed until they can be zipped and buttoned. “Next time, bring sweats, it would be easier for this part. Put your underwear in your pocket. Yeah, your socks too. Let’s just get out of here, before Jordie murders your dom.”

“He didn’t do anything wrong.” He needs Justin to know that. He needs both of them to, but Justin is the one he has a better chance with. Anyone hurting Jamie flipped a switch that turned off Jordie’s ability to listen, ever since they were kids. 

Justin looks at him, lips pressed together unhappily. “You’re dehydrated as fuck, Jamie. Bruised up. You lost weight just over the weekend. I get that you were playing and you consented and everything, but I wouldn’t say he didn’t do anything wrong. He definitely didn’t do it _right_.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re swaying on your feet.” Justin sighs. “Let’s get out of here, okay? I don’t think any of us can talk about any of this until we get some sleep and food.”

The mention of food gets Jamie’s attention more than the rest of it. “Yeah, I guess. I could use something to eat.”

“What’s he been giving you?” Justin rolls his eyes at Jamie’s look. “I’m just asking if you’re ready for real food yet, calm down. Not attacking him.”

“Toast and applesauce and that kind of stuff. I’m definitely ready for real food. As soon as possible.”

“Just for that I should order in something that’s going to give you the shits.” Justin puts his arm around Jamie’s shoulders and steers him back out to the living room. “Darth? You ready to go?”

Patrick is nowhere to be seen, and Jordie is glaring stiffly at the floor. That’s probably better than if the two of them were fighting, but Jamie’s chest tightens painfully at Patrick not being there. He can’t leave without assuring him that he’s going to make all of this right. 

“Are you ready?” Justin asks again, nudging his knee against Jordie’s. “Cause we are. Let’s just go. You’ll feel better once you eat something and get some sleep and then Jamie’s still there when you wake up.”

Jordie raises his eyes slowly. “Will he be?”

Jamie makes a hurt noise and pulls away from Justin, moving toward the hall that leads to the kitchen. “Patrick?”

“Jamie,” Justin says sharply. “Let’s go.”

But Jamie keeps going, making his way to the kitchen door and steadying himself on the frame. “Patrick.”

Patrick is standing by the sink, his hands wrapped around a mug of something. His hands are shaking; Jamie hopes it isn’t anything too hot. “You should go with them, Jamie.”

“I need to talk to you first.”

“It doesn’t matter. You should just go with them, and…” Patrick trails off and shakes his head. “We went too far.”

“No.”

“I went too far. I got carried away.”

“I agreed to all of it!”

Patrick shakes his head again and dumps his mug out in the sink. “That doesn’t undo any of it.”

“I don’t _want_ any of it undone!” Jamie’s voice breaks a little. “Don’t do this, okay? Just… just don’t.”

“I made some really bad mistakes, Jamie.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I could have hurt you really badly.”

“But you didn’t!” Jamie punches the wall; there’s not much force behind it, but the thump is enough to make Patrick look at him. “Look. I’m gonna go with them. I need to. But I’ll call you, okay? Soon. We’ll talk. Don’t do anything dumb until we talk.”

“Jamie,” Justin calls from the other room. “Let’s go.”

Patrick turns his face away for a moment, then looks at Jamie and nods silently. Jamie wants to hear him say it, wants to _make_ him say it, but this will have to be good enough. This isn’t the time to make a scene or press a fight. He nods back, instead, shuffling toward the hallway and not looking away until he has to.

**

The ride home is eerily, icily quiet. Jordie stares out the window and doesn’t say anything. Justin turns the radio up enough to fill the silence and drives with exaggerated care, never going over the speed limit or rushing a yellow light. Jamie takes his cue from them and keeps his mouth shut, closing his eyes and leaning back in the back seat but careful to stay awake until Justin maneuvers into a parking spot outside the apartment.

“Do you think you can keep pizza down?” Justin asks when they get inside. Jordie makes a wounded noise before grabbing Juice’s leash and hustling the dog outside. 

Jamie bites his lip and shrugs. “I think I’m just gonna go lie down.”

“You have to eat.” Justin goes to the kitchen and yanks the refrigerator open, glaring inside like it’s deliberately keeping things from him. “Okay, we’ve got chicken. I can do chicken and rice and veggies, anybody can eat that. It’s old-people food. Go lie down and I’ll bring it up when it’s ready.”

“You don’t have to, like… do stuff for me, Justin.”

Justin slams the refrigerator door hard enough that the dishes in the sink rattle. “I know that. Go lie down.”

Jamie does as he’s told.

He falls asleep before Justin brings the food up; Justin wakes him up to eat, and then he falls asleep again. When he finally wakes up, the streetlights are on outside. He’s lost the whole day.

“Shit,” he mutters, rubbing his face. He registers Justin’s presence in the desk chair just before he turns the light on. “Shit! What are you doing!”

“Keeping an eye on you.”

“You don’t have to watch me sleep!”

“It’s more waiting for you to wake up.” Justin swings his feet up on the mattress and looks at Jamie intently. “How are you feeling?”

Jamie tugs the blanket up higher over himself. “Better.”

“Good. I convinced Jord to take a couple Xanax, so it’s just me you’ve gotta worry about.”

Jamie winces. “How much should I worry?”

“What were you thinking?”

The most honest answer doesn’t make him look very good. Jamie’s too tired to come up with anything else, though. “I wasn’t.”

“Yeah.” Justin picks up a pen and drums it against the edge of the desk. “You scared the shit out of both of us. And apparently we were right to be scared. You could’ve been hurt really bad, Jamie. You honestly could have died, if something went wrong.”

Jamie doesn’t want to argue with him. He _can’t_ , right now. “How did you guys find me, anyway? How did you find Patrick’s apartment?”

“We got back here and you weren’t here. You still weren’t answering your phone. Jordie wasn’t sure if it was right to _search_ your room, but anything lying out in the open was fair game.” Justin picked an envelope up from the desk and tossed it at Jamie. “This was on the desk.”

It takes Jamie a moment to recognize it: the invitation to the kink demonstrations. The one that was sent to Patrick’s house and that he gave to Jamie, envelope and all. He presses his thumb over Patrick’s name and address and stares at the stupid expensive fancy paper of the envelope.

“Jordie recognized the name as one of your clients,” Justin says after a moment. “It seemed like at least a place to start.”

“Lucky guess.”

“Lucky for you, yes.”

Jamie shakes his head. “He wouldn’t let me be hurt. You don’t know him, but I do.”

Justin sighs. “You are extremely frustrating, you know that? It’s a good thing we both love you or I think we would be kicking you out right now.”

It’s like a kick in the stomach; Jamie flinches back, pushing the envelope away and curling his fingers into his blanket. “I’ll go if you guys want me to go.”

“We _don’t_ want you to go. That’s my point.”

“I can’t stay if you’re going to treat me like a stupid kid who doesn’t know any better and can’t choose for himself.”

Justin’s mouth opens like he’s going to snap something back, but he stops and looks at Jamie for a long moment instead. “I know you can think for yourself.”

Jamie shrugs. “Then maybe ask me why I did it, instead of assuming it’s because I’m too stupid to know it was risky.”

“You knew it was risky?” Jamie glares at him and Justin puts his hands up. “Okay, okay. Calculated risk, then?”

“I trusted him. I still trust him. We had been talking about finding a way to do something intense together, something special.”

“But you didn’t ask him for a way to tap out or anything?”

“I had a way to tap out! I _did_ tap out! When you got there I was sleeping it off after I _tapped out_ the night before or earlier that day or… or whatever it was, I don’t know.”

Justin’s frowning, but he’s leaning forward in his chair now, toward Jamie instead of twisted away. “What exactly did he do?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business, is it?”

“I guess not.” Justin looks away for a minute, his brow furrowing. “But there _were_ safeties in place.”

“Yeah. I could’ve tapped out earlier if I wanted to. But I wanted to see how far I could go. I wanted to test myself. Does that make sense to you?”

“Doms aren’t some kind of other species, Jamie. Of course it makes sense. But his job is to let you go as far as you can without it being _too_ far. To keep you back from the edge.”

“I didn’t go over the edge.” Jamie lets go of the blanket and wraps his arms around himself. “Believe me or don’t.”

Justin sits still for a long moment, then nods. “I do. I think I do, yeah. Okay.” He stands up and moves over to the desk, squinting out the window at the street, then turns back to Jamie. “Can I get you anything? Water or a sandwich or something?”

“I’ll come downstairs, I think. I want to try to move around.”

“All right.” Justin’s brow is scrunched up again, and Jamie waits him out, letting him gather his thoughts before he speaks again. “I believe you, okay? I understand, now, I think. But I can’t help you with Jordie.”

Jamie closes his eyes. “Fuck.”

“Yeah. I can tell him to take it easy and try to listen to what you say? But I can’t, like. Help you get through to him. That’s up to you.”

“What if I can’t?”

Justin bites his lip for a moment. “He’ll still love you.”

“But he might not be able to look at me.”

“Or trust you, anymore.”

Jamie shakes his head. “That’s not fair.”

“A lot of things aren’t fair. They still happen.”

“God, you and the Yoda shit, can you just…” Jamie groans and swings his legs over the side of the bed, pausing for a beat before he makes the next effort and stands up. “This sucks.”

“I agree.”

“I’m not going to lose my brother over what I do for fun. Or sex. Or… both, whatever, neither of those should affect how my brother feels about me.”

Justin shakes his head. “That isn’t the problem and you know it. You lied to him, you scared him, it—”

“No.” Jamie takes careful steps toward the door. “If I had blown you guys off to go on a weekend date to, like, go skiing or visit a bunch of wineries or just hang out with a guy at his place, Jordie wouldn’t be upset like this. Not this bad. He doesn’t like _what_ I was doing.”

“Because it’s risky and you could’ve been hurt!”

“Skiing is risky too and he _still_ wouldn’t have been this upset!”

Justin drags his hand through his hair and sighs. “I don’t know what to tell you. But it’s gotta be between the two of you. I can’t do it.”

“I’m not asking you to do it.” Jamie gets close enough to look him in the eye. “Just tell me that if he does kick me out, you’ll help me move my stuff, okay?”

“Duh.” Justin rolls his eyes and pulls him into a hug. “It’s not gonna go that far.”

“I hope not.”

“I promise not.” Another hug. “I love you, buddy. I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“I love you too.” Jamie leans on him, resting his forehead against Justin’s. “I’ve gotta talk to Patrick, too. But not til after I talk to Jordie. And not here.”

“Good plan.” Justin squeezes him again and lets go. “C’mon. We both need a snack after all that. And a beer, if you can take it.”

Jamie follows him down the hall to the stairs. “I have never needed one more in my life.”

**

By the time Jamie has to go see a client the next morning, Jordie still hasn’t come out of his room. Jamie’s strongly tempted to cancel on the client and camp outside Jordie’s door to wait, but last-minute cancellations and ambushing Jordie are both things that tend to end badly. 

“I’ll talk you up to him,” Justin promises. “I’ll prime the pump. Go do your thing so you can pay your rent, because asking him to cover you this month would be a bad idea.”

Jamie actually already has the rent money in the bank, but—that’s not the point, and he knows it, so he gives Justin a hug and goes. This is an easy client, relaxation massage for a woman who carries her tension in her shoulders and mostly just wants someone to talk to and admire her indoor garden of potted succulents. Jamie can listen and admire plants just fine, and Lisa always has a cup of tea and some kind of baked goods for him, too.

Today’s tea makes him wish it was coffee, which gives him an idea when the session ends. He texts Jordie before he starts folding up the table, and then puts the phone in his coat pocket so he won’t check it until he gets outside. That’s a few minutes to give himself some dignity.

There’s a reply when he looks, so he doesn’t have to throw himself into traffic. Jamie had asked, _Meet for coffee? The usual place? Half an hour?_. Jordie’s answer is just _ok_ , but that’s better than nothing.

The usual place is a few blocks from their house. Jamie takes a cab there, wrestling his gear into and out of the trunk without humiliating himself too badly. He arrives first and orders what they always get, then sets up shop at a table by the window. He gets a text from Justin just as he gets settled: _Dropped him off at the corner, he’ll be there in 2 minutes, DON’T FIGHT._

Jamie rests his chin in his hands and watches the sidewalk through the window, trying to sit with the sudden fear that Jordie will turn around and go home instead of coming to see him. Maybe Jordie doesn’t want to talk to him at all, maybe now that he’s slept on it he doesn’t even want to _see_ Jamie, maybe he wants to get rid of him altogether…

Jordie comes walking down the sidewalk from the corner, disappears around the edge of the building, and then comes through the door. He sees Jamie and the two cups of coffee in front of him and nods, then jerks his head toward the line anyway. “Muffin. You want one?”

“Yeah, sure.” He should’ve thought of muffins. Dammit.

When Jordie comes back he places one muffin carefully in front of Jamie, square on a napkin, and the other in front of himself, then takes a long drink of his coffee. “Thanks for picking this up.”

“No problem. Thanks for…” He gestures at the muffin. “Uh. So.”

Jordie starts peeling the paper off of his in slow, precise movements. “Yeah.”

Right. Jamie has to start this. That’s his job as the one who fucked up. “I’m really sorry I scared you.”

“And lied to me.”

“And lied to you.” This already sucks. “It was dumb, and I should’ve been honest, and let you know that I would be out of contact.”

“Or not been out of contact at all.”

“Well, that’s…” He stops and takes a breath. Can’t get upset. Gotta stay calm. “We should’ve figured out a way to do check-ins, yeah. We didn’t really… plan. It was spontaneous.”

A muscle twitches by Jordie’s eye. “I guess so.”

“C’mon, Jordie, you know that sometimes when you… when you’ve got somebody, you get kinda caught up and you wanna be spontaneous. When you’re dating someone or whatever.”

“You’re dating him?”

“Not exactly.” Jamie wants to hit his head on the table. He settles for taking a drink and holding it on his tongue until it hurts. “I’m seeing him, I guess. We’re seeing each other. It’s not _dating_ , but it’s not… not dating.”

“Thanks for clearing that up.”

“But you know what I mean! When you’re into someone. That part where all you want to do is… is _do stuff_. You don’t think about anything, you just do it.”

Jordie tears his muffin wrapper in half and takes a deep breath. “I guess I can see that.”

“Okay.” That’s something. 

“But what you guys do is _dangerous_. You could get hurt.”

“I could get hurt doing a lot of things!”

“So why add one more to the list? One that it would be really easy to go without?”

Jamie presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Because it’s worth it to me.”

“I don’t understand that.”

“I know you don’t. I don’t need you to. I just need you to know that it’s true for me. It’s not something I can just decide to go without. It’s part of me. I need it.”

Jordie looks away, out the window, drumming his fingers fast against the table. “I want to ask you not to see him anymore. I don’t trust him.”

Jamie’s stomach sinks. “He didn’t hurt me, though. He was careful. If anything he proved you _should_ trust him.”

“He fucked you up!”

“Not more than I wanted!”

Jordie throws his hands up and falls back in his seat. “See, this is the thing, I just can’t… I can’t understand that. I can’t get past that.”

There’s nothing Jamie can say to that. He stares into his coffee cup.

“You’re my baby brother,” Jordie says, his voice soft and tired. “I’m supposed to protect you. But you won’t let me.”

“I can’t,” Jamie mumbles. “I have to live my life, Jord.”

“I get that. I do. Just…” Jordie swallows hard. “Not him? Please?”

“That’s… that’s not fair, Jordie.” It’s hard to make the words, hard to say them loudly enough to be heard. “You know that isn’t fair.”

“Of course it’s not fair. But don’t I get one unfair thing? Like one get out jail free card, but it’s one super-unfair thing to ask you for card.”

“Do I get one, too?”

“Aw, Jamie. You’ve been able to ask me for anything your whole life, fair or not.”

That hurts deeper than Jamie was ready for, punching him down low in the gut. “Have I ever actually asked you for something this unfair?”

Jordie pushes his coffee cup away and rubs his face. “I guess not. Anything you wanted, I wanted, too.”

“So… so please. Don’t ask me that.”

Jordie’s quiet for a long time, his hand still over his eyes. Jamie’s own coffee has gone cold and dull in the cup, and his whole torso aches with worry, his stomach and his chest, his heart and his guts, everything.

“Can you promise to be more _careful_?” Jordie asks finally. His voice is tight, and Jamie can hear the effort in it, how this is hard but Jordie’s trying anyway. Jordie’s trying for him. “I know what you said about being spontaneous. But can you _not_ be spontaneous about _dangerous_ stuff? Do a spontaneous trip to the mountains if you want, but fucking… fucking _plan out_ bondage weekends enough in advance that I know where you are.”

Jamie’s so relieved he chokes before he can answer. “Yeah. Yeah, definitely. I bet that’s the first thing he’s gonna tell me, too. That we have to do that. New rules.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“Not yet.” A flicker of unease goes through Jamie’s mind; Patrick hasn’t even texted to check in, or anything. “I wanted to get things fixed with you and Justin first.”

“Justin?” Jordie shakes his head. “Justin always thinks you’re 100% right. You’re perfect to Justin.”

“No. He, uh. He wasn’t too happy about this one.”

Jordie frowns. “He was telling me to go easier on you.”

“I think he just knows how to get both of us to do what he wants.” Jamie makes a face. “I think this time he just manipulated us into making up.”

“We should kick his ass.” Jordie settles back in his chair, some of the tension easing in his face. “Or at least drink all of his beer.”

“Definitely all the beer.” Jamie lets himself smile, then meets Jordie’s eyes. “We’re okay? You forgive me?”

“We’re okay. I’m still a little pissed off but I won’t hold it over your head or anything. I’m just gonna make you make my coffee the next few days.”

“I can do that.” Jamie bites his lip and looks down at the table. “And if I want to talk about stuff about Patrick, I’ll go to Justin, okay?”

“I think that would be good.” Jordie falls quiet again for a moment. “I just want to protect you, you know? You let yourself get hurt, and I don’t understand it. I try to understand, but I… I can’t.”

Jamie just nods. What else can he do?

“But not understanding doesn’t mean I can’t be supportive.” Jordie blows out a slow breath. “So I guess I’ll concentrate on doing that.”

“Thanks,” Jamie says. “I mean it. Even just trying, that would be good.”

“I’ll do my best.” Jordie kicks him under the table, just a little bit. “You have any more appointments today?”

“No. You working?”

“Just going in to help for a few hours. Pick me up at six and we’ll get dinner?”

Jamie nods, trying not to slump in his chair in relief. Things are gonna be okay. “Yeah, dude. That sounds great.”

**

So he’s still got Jordie, and Justin. He’s not going to end up alone on the street or whatever. He’s not alone.

But he can’t get ahold of Patrick.

He’s sent at least a dozen texts. He’s called a couple of times, not leaving messages at first and then giving in and leaving short ones, just asking Patrick to call him back. He understands feeling weird about things. He even understands needing time, or space, or to never see Jamie again, honestly. It would hurt but he could understand it.

He just needs to _know_.

Patrick cancels their next massage appointment, and through the office, too, not even letting Jamie know directly. Just the one appointment, not ending the account, which gives Jamie a little hope, but… it’s still not good. Patrick’s still not _talking_ to him.

Another week passes, and Jamie starts to get frantic. He isn’t going to go wait outside Patrick’s building or anything; that’s over the line, and the whole thing he wants to talk to Patrick about is being better at planning for lines before they cross them. Being responsible and adult. All kinds of things that he can only make a case for if he doesn’t fuck them up right now.

The diner, though. That diner Patrick took him to that one night. _That_ is a public space, and not near Patrick’s house, and sort of fair game. He knows it’s a little weird, because it’s _Patrick’s_ place and not somewhere they found together, but…

Well, he’s willing to split that one hair. For now.

He’s sitting there, almost a month after the night he went to Patrick’s house, between massage appointments and telling himself that drinking more coffee will help him fight off the cold threatening in his sinuses and the back of his throat. He’s not facing the door, but he knows when Patrick comes in—maybe it’s a hint of aftershave in the air, maybe it’s the sound of an indrawn breath, maybe his body just knows Patrick’s body, now. 

Whatever it is that prompts him, he turns around just in time to meet Patrick’s eyes.

Patrick looks good. Tired, but not torn-up tired like part of Jamie was expecting, or maybe hoping. He’s wearing a suit with the tie stuffed in the jacket pocket, collar unbuttoned, and a trench coat folded over his arm. The shadows under his eyes are deep, bruised-looking, and his cheekbones are more prominent than they were, but it isn’t…

Somehow Jamie thought that Patrick would look like he’d really _lost_ something, instead of like it’s been a long week at the office, maybe.

“Jamie,” Patrick says, and Jamie promptly forgets about being spiteful, because Patrick _sounds_ like seeing him is something better than he had any right to respect.

“Hey.” Jamie isn’t sure if he should stand up, maybe even walk toward him or reach for him. He wants to. But they’re in public, and making a scene would probably send Patrick running. “Um. Yeah, it’s me.”

“I didn’t think I would see you here.”

“I was hoping I’d see you here.” Jamie catches himself and looks past Patrick’s shoulder, where the hostess is still hovering at her booth, a menu for Patrick in her hand. “Can you join me? We need to talk and stuff. I’ve got an extra chair.”

Patrick’s eyes flick to the chair, then back to Jamie. “I’m pretty sure this is entrapment.”

It stings; that’s Jamie’s excuse for what he says next. “Kinda like the playroom closet?”

He regrets it as soon as it’s out of his mouth, both from the way the hostess’ eyes go wide and puzzled and the fact that Patrick _chokes_ when he hears it, eyes going wide and a swallow catching in his throat, leaving him wheezing and punching at his chest.

“That was a joke,” Jamie says, scrambling out of his chair and offering Patrick his napkin. “Jesus. Sorry.”

“Oh my god.” Patrick presses the napkin over his mouth for a moment, closing his eyes tightly. Jamie can see tears gathering along his lashes, but that’s from coughing, not crying. He knows the difference. “Yes, I’ll sit with you, if we can… not be that loud again. Deal?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” Jamie nods at the hostess with an apologetic look. “He’s gonna join me… menu and silverware? And water, I think he needs water. Thank you. Sorry.”

Patrick drops into the free chair and crumples the napkin in his hand, looking at Jamie steadily for a long moment. “You were looking for me?”

Jamie doesn’t have anything to fidget with, since he gave Patrick his napkin and banging his silverware on the table would be a little too close to acting like a toddler. He rubs his thumb over the rings left by his water glass instead. “Yeah. Of course. I have been.”

Patrick’s jaw tenses. “I thought me not responding to your messages was kind of a signal.”

Jamie shakes his head. “Nope.”

“You’re really not going to be satisfied until you can yell at me in person?” Patrick nods and spreads his hands on the table. “Okay. Fine. Didn’t really plan on this today, but go ahead.”

Jamie frowns. “I don’t want to yell at you.”

“What, then? You want to hear me apologize? I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I fucked up, bad, big-time, I… I fucked up beyond human comprehension.”

This is not what Jamie thought was going to happen, and he feels pretty much like when he and Jordie used to go tubing and his inner tube got caught in a current and spun off by itself. “What are you talking about?”

“I went too far. I got caught up in how good it was, and how beautiful you were, and how _willing_ , how you would take _anything_.” Patrick’s voice is rising steadily, and he catches himself, closing his eyes again. Water is glittering on his lashes again, and Jamie wonders uneasily if this time it actually is tears. That doesn’t seem right, or possible, really, but it seems to be staring him in the face.

“I was supposed to keep control, and I didn’t,” Patrick says. “I went overboard, and I put you in danger, and I’m so… I’m so sorry.” He opens his eyes again, meeting Jamie’s own. “Is that what you wanted me to say? I can get down on the floor and grovel, if you want, but it’s gonna get a lot of attention in here.”

“That’s not… no,” Jamie stammers. “I didn’t want that. I mean, I get that, I _knew_ that already. I understand. Um. I got carried away, too. I don’t blame you for what happened. I never did.”

Patrick stares at him. “Then why… what... You were waiting for me here.”

“I wanted to _talk_ to you. I do want to talk to you. I think we need to talk!”

“What is there to say? I went too far, it turned into a mess, I thought you were going to press charges…”

“ _What_? No!” Jamie gawks at him, forgetting his earlier resolve about what to do with his hands and grabbing at his silverware. “I would never do that!”

“You have every right to. Abduction, imprisonment, aggravated assault. For starters.”

“You didn’t abduct me! I came over and let myself in!”

Patrick shakes his head. “The point is—”

“No, that’s definitely not the point.” Jamie slumps in his chair. “I can’t believe this. I was texting you that I wanted to talk and to know that you were okay and you thought that meant I was going to have you arrested? That doesn’t even make sense.”

“I thought your friends might have a different take on things. And some influence over you.”

Jamie shakes his head. “My brother and Justin? I talked to them. I explained everything. They wouldn’t do that, either, they understand now.”

Patrick stares at him for a long moment, then rubs both hands over his face. “I keep thinking that nobody can possibly be as… _you_ as you are. And then you do it again. I think it’s just something you put on when you’re subbing, but…”

Jamie flinches back. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Talk about me like I’m stupid.”

Patrick looks bewildered. “I don’t think you’re stupid.”

“Then don’t _act_ like I am.” Jamie looks away, trying to catch his breath, and the hostess suddenly appears with Patrick’s water and menu. She must have been waiting for a break in the conversation; her interjection makes that break stretch out longer, which is good, probably. Lets them both take a minute to get their thoughts together.

“You’re not stupid,” Patrick says finally. “I actually meant that as a compliment, you being you. I _like_ you being you. You’re sweet, you’re just _good_ , you…” He stops and takes a breath. “You’re a lot more forgiving than most people.”

Jamie shakes his head. “I told you. There isn’t anything to forgive. We both screwed up, not just you.”

“I was in charge.”

“I could’ve tapped out whenever. That’s how it works. I didn’t. I wanted to see how much I could take, too.”

“I thought maybe you didn’t tap out because you wanted to impress me.”

“Of course I did, but I _also_ wanted to see for myself.” Jamie shakes his head. “Don’t you even know how this works?”

“Yeah, I do, but—” Patrick stops and takes a drink. “It’s not that simple.”

“Nothing about this is simple.”

“Obviously.” 

A waiter is hovering nearby, eyeing them with a skepticism that says the hostess must have given him a heads-up. Jamie sighs. “Do you want to eat? And, like. Talk about this after? Or later? Or another time? But you have to actually answer my texts if you say another time. You can’t just blow me off.”

“I definitely want to eat.” Patrick stares down at his menu. “I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about it.”

“You’ve had _weeks_.”

“I didn’t spend them getting ready to talk. You kind of ambushed me with this.”

“How long do you need?”

“I don’t know. A few days?”

Jamie nods slowly. “I’ll pick you up for coffee on Sunday.”

“That’s not—” Patrick stops. “Fine. That’s fine.”

Jamie nods again and opens his own menu. “Cool.”

He can tell Patrick’s watching him, but he doesn’t look up. “Are you planning to eat here, too?” Patrick says after a moment.

“Yeah. I’m hungry.”

“Here at this table. With me.”

“Yeah.”

“So we’re not talking, but we’re having dinner together. You think that’s a good order to do things in.”

Jamie shrugs and finally meets his eyes. “Why not?”

Patrick opens and closes his mouth a few times and then shakes his head and looks down at the menu. Being stubborn and difficult probably isn’t as good as actually talking through stuff with Patrick and fixing it, but if it’s all Jamie can do right now, he’ll take it.

**

He doesn’t tell Justin or Jordie about it; they’ll have a lot of opinions, and it would be distracting and confusing. This is all on him, this time. He’s got to figure it out himself.

It’s hard to decide what to say. He told Patrick the important parts at the diner, the parts he had assumed that Patrick knew already. Jamie had made his own choices during their weekend together, he tapped out when he wanted to, everything that Patrick had done he’d taken willingly. Eagerly, even. He didn’t have any regrets, and he definitely didn’t feel taken advantage of or abused.

Jamie didn’t want to have to say all of that all over again on Sunday, but he probably was going to have to. Patrick was just as stubborn as he was, and he’d had all of this time to dig himself in and convince himself he was right.

He knows they both got carried away. He knows they need to be more careful. But he wants the _chance_ to be more careful; he wants to keep seeing Patrick and keep doing this. He doesn’t want anything to stop. He doesn’t want anything to change.

He just has to remind Patrick that he feels the same way, underneath the guilt.

Jamie’s not naive, though. He knows that maybe Patrick _doesn’t_ feel the same way, or doesn’t anymore, or won’t be able to get past the guilt. And in that case, he knows he has to walk away. It’s not fair to try to change Patrick’s mind. It’s not fair to beg or get desperate and weird.

He won’t be able to keep seeing Patrick as a client if they stop doing this, though. It was stupid to think they could keep things separate and never let them interfere with each other. He’d known better, all along, he just wanted to believe.

Time to stop believing things would work out. Time to figure them out for real, with words, like adults.

Man, this was going to _suck_.

**

Patrick’s waiting outside of his building when Jamie walks up. Bad sign, Jamie’s pretty sure; not letting him in, not letting him see the apartment.

He tries not to show a reaction, though. “Hey. Ready?”

“Absolutely.” Patrick slips his phone into his pocket and smiles at him. It’s not quite the smile Jamie got used to when everything was okay, but it’s not worried or distant, so he’ll take that as a good sign. 1-1, good and bad signs. Tie game.

“I guess we can just go to the one on the corner,” he says, pointing vaguely up the street. “That way. Does that work?”

“Whatever you want.” 

“I want to fix this. Where we do that isn’t important.”

Patrick sighs. “I’m not sure ‘fix’ is the right way to look at it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Fixing would mean that at one point we were doing things the right way. I’m not sure we ever were.”

Back to bad signs, then. “Let’s get coffee and sit down before we have this conversation, okay? I need the caffeine.”

“Fine.” Patrick picks up his pace, his jaw tight and his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Part of Jamie cringes back at making him unhappy; the rest is kind of looking forward to a fight, if he can get one. At least if they’re fighting, Patrick _has_ to talk, and maybe even be honest.

They order their coffees and find a table without a word to each other. Patrick still looks pissed when they’re finally seated and Jamie can see his face clearly again. 

Patrick tears open a packet of sugar and dumps it into his coffee, stirring halfheartedly before taking a drink. “So. Like I said. Fixing might not be an option.”

“I think you’re wrong about that. We were doing things fine. I don’t think anything got broken until I left your place, actually, and that was only because of Jordie and Justin busting in.”

“I don’t understand how you can think that.” Patrick grabs another packet of sugar and twists it between his fingers. “How was any of what we did right?”

“We were both having fun. It was good for me. I’m pretty sure it was good for you, too. You always acted like it was.”

“Yeah, well.” Patrick rips open the sugar packet and adds it to his coffee, too. “I’m a sick fuck, so. You can’t base anything on what’s good for me.”

Jamie groans and kicks at his chair. “God, _please_ don’t do that. I know you got over that years ago, you know it, too, just because something went wrong doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you. Don’t bullshit me.”

“It’s different for doms, Jamie. You don’t know. We’re the ones who can end up arrested.”

“I already said I’m not going to do that!”

“That’s not the point!”

“What _is_ the point, then? You’re not making any sense!”

Patrick shoves his coffee aside, leaving a slopped-over mess on the table. “This was _scary_ for me, okay? Apparently it wasn’t for you, it was no big deal, but I was scared. I’m still scared. I don’t know what to do to make any of this better. You just want me to forget about it and keep going like nothing happened. I can’t do that.”

Jamie stares at him for a minute, trying to push down his heart’s pounding in his ears. “What are you scared of? Jordie and Justin aren’t going to do anything. I’m not going to do anything. I told you, that’s… that’s off the table, all of it.”

“I’m not scared of that anymore. I heard you when you told me.”

“Then what? You’re not making _sense_ , Patrick.”

“I scared myself. I didn’t know I had that in me, but I do. And I have to live with it.” Patrick shakes his head and stares down at the table. “I don’t know how, but I have to. I don’t understand how it didn’t scare you, too. You saw what I can do, what I’m capable of, and you’re _okay_ with it, and I don’t… I don’t get it. How can you come back to me after that? How can I _let_ you?”

“I told you that already, too. You didn’t do anything I couldn’t take, and you didn’t give me anything I didn’t want. When I had enough, I stopped it, and you respected that. You did exactly what you were supposed to do. You were a textbook dom. I don’t get how _you_ can’t see _that_.”

“So I guess we’re stuck.” Patrick rests his face in his hands for a moment. “Ah, _fuck_.”

“I’m not stuck. I know what I want.”

“You want to keep going like nothing happened.”

“Nothing did happen.”

“Jamie, _please_.” Patrick takes a deep breath. “I’m asking you. Just… just let me say my piece without planning how you’ll argue with me, okay?”

“I’m _not_.” Jamie pushes his chair back a little and folds his arms across his chest. “Whatever. Talk. I’ll listen.”

“I can’t do what you want. I can’t just keep going like nothing happened. Stuff _did_ happen, to me. Or for me. In my head. However you need to think of it. Okay? Can you give me that, that something did happen, from where I’m sitting?”

Jamie grinds his teeth together but nods. “I guess.”

“Thank you.” Patrick rests his elbows on the table and leans forward a little. “So I can’t do that. But I don’t… I don’t want to drop this and never see you again, either.”

Jamie’s eye twitches. _You already_ did _that_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say. Promised to try not to argue. 

“So…” Patrick trails off, blinking. “I’m not sure where to go from there.”

“You don’t want to stop,” Jamie says. “But you don’t want to keep going.”

“Not the way it was. Not… fast and careless.”

Jamie shakes his head. “It didn’t feel careless. I’m not arguing. I’m just… saying. For me. It didn’t feel careless. I felt like you cared.”

“Maybe not careless, then.” Patrick’s quiet for a moment. “Sloppy. Reckless? Something like that.”

It’s hard to sort through all of this and figure out what Patrick _means_. Jamie’s never been good at sorting through heavy emotions like this. It’s confusing and exhausting and he usually gets it wrong anyway. “So do you want to go back and start over? Slower? Or what?”

“Maybe? More careful, anyway. And more… more clear. About what we are to each other. What we’re doing.”

Jamie’s eyes widen. “Do you want to _date_?”

“I don’t know. Maybe?” Patrick looks at him for a moment, his expression going from confused and hopeful to confused and tired. “You don’t look thrilled with that. Is it that awful of an idea?”

Jamie shakes his head, curling his fingers into the hem of his shirt to keep his hands busy. This is _hard_. “We just, you know. We agreed it wasn’t going to be like that.”

“I know. I do know. I think maybe that was the first mistake, that we didn’t even leave space to maybe have feelings.”

It’s like he tripped and fell forward and is caught in midair, not quite hitting the ground. “You have _feelings_?”

At least Patrick looks just as lost and helpless as Jamie feels. “Maybe? I don’t know. Do you? Or do you definitely _not_? I… god, this _sucks_.”

“It sucks so bad.” Jamie shifts his chair around, the low screech of the legs on the tile and the feel of it shifting under him dragging him back and grounding him, at least for a moment. “But you want to leave space for feelings. Is what you said.”

“Why did we put feelings off-limits, do you remember?”

“Because you were my client.” It’s weird saying it out loud. It feels like something from a million years ago, prehistory that’s getting dragged up long after it could possibly be relevant. “We couldn’t date because it wouldn’t be ethical. So we were just gonna scene casually.”

Patrick nods slowly. “Right. That’s right. Wow. We, um. We really fucked up casually, didn’t we?”

“I don’t get why. I was casual with Justin and it was fine. I do casual really _well_ with him.”

Patrick raises an eyebrow. “You guys aren’t casual.”

“Of course we are! We’re definitely not _dating_.”

“You can love people without dating them. Friend-love or family-love or whatever you want to call it. I’m pretty sure you guys have that. I mean, he was right there with your brother breaking into my house to look out for you.”

“Oh.” That’s… something that’s going to make his head hurt to think about, he can already tell. Save it for later, then. “So you want something like that for me and you? Or… or dating?”

“I don’t know. I think I could date you, if you wanted to. Do you want to date?”

“I don’t _know_!” Frustration makes it even harder for him to think. He wants Patrick to grab him by the wrist or the back of the neck and tell him what to do. He wants Patrick to decide for him. That’s what he went to Patrick for in the first place. 

Patrick sighs again. “See, and now I’m back to thinking that maybe this just won’t work out. You have to know what you want.”

“I do know what I want,” Jamie snaps. “It just isn’t what you want to hear.”

“I don’t even know what I want to hear!”

“Then why do you expect me to!”

“ _Shit_.” One of Patrick’s hands falls to the table with a loud enough thump that people look over at them from all over the room. “Shit.”

Jamie takes a deep breath and tries to gather his thoughts again. “What do you want right now? No stopping to think. Just tell me. What do you _want_ , right _now_?”

Patrick exhales through clenched teeth. “I want to take you home and throw you down on the bed and fuck you until neither one of us can argue anymore.”

“Awesome,” Jamie says, sweeping the torn-up sugar packets into one hand and then grabbing his coffee cup with the other. “That’s what I want, too. Let’s go.”

“Jamie, we can’t actually…”

“Why not?” Jamie stops and looks at him. He’s on his feet now, and Patrick isn’t; he has the height advantage, and the advantage of having some kind of conviction in his voice. He knows all the cheap psychological tricks behind this. He doesn’t care anymore. “We’re both adults. We both want it. I just consented loud and clear. And I promise I won’t stay overnight without texting the guys, this time.”

Patrick stares at him for a minute, and then his mouth twitches, just on the edge of a smile. “We’re probably about to be thrown out of here anyway, eh?”

“We definitely are.” Jamie crumples the sugar packets into his pocket and holds out his hand. “Let’s go?”

When Patrick takes his hand, he starts breathing easy again, for the first time in days.

**

Fucking until they can’t argue is the best idea Patrick ever had, Jamie’s pretty sure. He even ranks it up above the wax stuff.

“So are we dating now?” he asks eventually, his voice thick and sleepy, his body heavy and maybe never moving out of this bed.

“I think we might be married now,” Patrick mumbles against his shoulder.

“That’s one way to make Jordie like you.”

“Oh god.” Patrick laughs and rolls onto his back. “I doubt it.”

Jamie finds his hand under the sheets and holds on tight. “So… we try the feelings thing?”

Patrick nods. “Yes.”

“What about the kinky stuff?”

Patrick’s smile fades and he squeezes at Jamie’s hand, then slowly rubs his thumbs over the knuckles. “I can’t really put a timeline on it. When we’re ready. When we both feel ready.”

Jamie can’t argue with that, but he also can’t seem to stop himself from checking. “Like, anything at all? Or can I still get a spanking once in a while?”

Patrick’s body starts to shake. It takes Jamie a minute to realize he’s laughing. “Oh my god. You…”

“I’m just asking!”

“I know. I know you are. You…” He covers his mouth with his free hand, hiding his laughter until he gets it under control. “Open-handed _swatting_ , not spanking. And I’ll pin you down sometimes. Fair?”

Jamie tugs at his hand until Patrick looks at him. “It’s a deal.”

“Okay.” Patrick smiles and leans in, pausing to breathe against his mouth before he speaks. “Game on.”


End file.
